


Hypothesis Testing

by DegenerativeFicsDisease



Series: Physics 101: A Study in Attraction [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Anal Play, BDSM, Bondage, Breathplay, Choking, Consensual Abandonment, Consensual Non-Consent, Corseting, Cuckolding, Depression, Edgeplay, Emotional Manipulation, Exhibitionism, F/M, Food/Drink play, Hand & Finger Kink, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Knifeplay, Masochism, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Professor/Student Relationship, Rape Fantasy, Reader-Insert, Sadism, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Switching, Temperature Play, Tickling, Unhealthy Relationships, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29364987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DegenerativeFicsDisease/pseuds/DegenerativeFicsDisease
Summary: You and Doctor Arclight are getting better at sneaking around, kind of. You're getting along a bit better, kind of. You're in a relationship, kind of? It's confusing, spawns a lot of questions. Christopher Arclight, the uptight physics professor at your local university, continues to have questions about himself that he can't quite answer without your help. It doesn't have to be you, he thinks, but you're the only willing participant who puts up with his questionable ideas and equally questionable kinks. You thought you were used to it, but the longer he jerks you around, the less patience you have for his antics. Besides, you have the easier question that doesn't require mass amounts of testing, if he'd just pay attention.
Relationships: Tenjou Kaito/Reader, V | Chris Arclight/Reader
Series: Physics 101: A Study in Attraction [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208813
Kudos: 11





	1. Chi-Squared Test

**Author's Note:**

> (note: if you're gonna participate in a kink lifestyle, please please please communicate with your partner)

Physics is still, by and large, your worst fucking class of the semester. Your thesis seminar's a walk in the park. European Intellectual History actually interests you and keeps your attention for the full hour. And yeah, yoga was a throwaway class, but it's an easy A and you get to feel semi-active for the better part of 90 minutes. Introductory physics with Professor Arclight, however, went from 'pretty fucking terrible' to 'Jesus Christ, take me out to the quad and shoot me in the back of the head' within the span of four weeks. It's your own fault, of course: You should've known better than to fuck the local pretty white boy in exchange for a passing grade. 

You have a C- now, though. Take that for what it's worth. ($1,600; you did the credit hour math. Getting fucked by Christopher Vincent Arclight is literally worth sixteen hundred dollars and all twelve facets of your pride. #worth, or something.) 

The downside to getting a passing grade? You still have to attend classes. Christopher insists that he can't change your grade if you don't show up, given his strict tendency to take attendance (in college, because intro physics courses are of the utmost importance), and the fact that he hasn't quite mastered imitating your snarky half-assed answers on quizzes and exams. It kills him a little on the inside when you don't choose the right equations – he's told you a thousand times in so many different contexts: “Calculating torque requires the angle between linear force and the measured distance from the axis of rotation, Miss (Your Name).” In his office, in his lab, the bedroom, the kitchen counter, the sofa, in the faculty break room; state dependent learning shouldn't be the issue here.

Which is exactly why Doctor Arclight, clad in a skin-tight turtleneck tucked into his pants, stares you down while you scroll through Twitter, conveniently ignoring his lecture on rotational dynamics.

“The figure shown consists of a cylindrical spindle of negligible mass, attached to a conical base of .75 kilograms, thrown forward with an initial speed of--” His hands decked out in three different platinum rings hit the desk at the front of the room, the slam jolting every student awake, yourself included. “Ten milliseconds, the equivalent of Miss (Your Name)'s attention span!” 

You're still not used to the snickers and chuckles of your classmates. Even your lab partner cracks a smirk, because in fairness, he's not wrong to say that you can't focus during these tedious lectures. Christopher maintains his unwavering glare from behind his glasses; that, you're used to, but it's always a little terrifying when it happens in his classroom. The students that metaphorically suck his dick hate every fiber of your existence because you refuse to get on your knees in public and suck him off for being so smart and so bright and so pretty. They don't need to know that you already do that at least twice a week behind closed doors; if only he'd reward you with a facial, or some non-zero evidence of the male orgasm. 

“Come here, Miss (Your Name).” Chris beckons you to the front of the class with two slender fingers. The wire-wrapped ring around his middle finger really speaks to you, mimicking how tightly he has you wrapped around you finger. Your spine's run off to your apartment, sitting alone in the dusty darkness knowing full well you won't stop by for it any time soon. You practically live with this guy now. It's sickening. You're his wire-wrapped ring. “Since you can't be bothered to attend to my lectures, why don't you do your classmates a favor and walk them through the solution to this problem, hm?” 

Two options: get up and embarrass yourself in front of a class of forty kids who all really need to be pushed into traffic, or stay seated and run the risk of losing precious passing grade points and getting your ass beat after class. Unfortunately, the problem in your head is much easier to figure out than the problem on the board – what is that, a child's spinning top surrounded by numbers and Greek letters? Physics is stupid and useless; you tell the greasy nerd in the second row as much when he whispers a cheeky 'good luck' as you pass with heavy feet. The dread weighs you down, and Doctor Arclight threatens to kill you with his eyes and the pointed pendant he's fiddling with at his chest. 

“Go ahead and tell the class how to solve this problem.” 

If only the dry-erase marker in your hand doubled as a knife. You're captivated by the idea of drawing pretty red lines all over Christopher's pale body, writing insults all over his back, circling all of his flaws and grading each of his features. The pen feels especially heavy when you make out the little whispers of your peers, some laughing, others wondering how you made it this far in class. Doctor Arclight stands off to the side, arms crossed firmly at his chest as he heaves dramatized sighs and checks his Cartier watch, biting back smirks when your hand visibly starts to shake. 

“Sometime today, Miss (Your Name).” 

“I... Don't know how to answer this.” 

“Would someone like to help Miss (Your Name) solve this equation, or should we let her continue to stare at the board and hope that the answer comes to her in a vision of sorts?” 

No one wants to help you. They want to impress Doctor Arclight with their knowledge on speed over distance or torque or tension or something equally useless and, by all accounts, a waste of precious brainpower. It's why the same seven kids all raise their hands in hopes of netting a rare compliment from their professor, and they should feel let down when they get a simple 'correct' in reply, but that's the equivalent of Professor Arclight kissing their feet in thanks. You try to pass the pen back to him, but he shakes his head, pointing at an empty spot on the board. 

“I'd appreciate it if you could give the class a written explanation as to what was so much more important than my lecture.” 

Question: Why did you decide to sleep with this guy again? What possessed you to go 'hey, Professor Arclight? I'd fuck that.'? What keeps you going back to his house? Why do you text him between classes? Why do you put up with his shit?

A) You're a masochistic freak who lives for pain and humiliation. B) You're a depressed sack of garbage who makes bad life decisions. C) You've been getting some of the best sex of your life ever since meeting this guy. D) You need a passing grade in physics. E) All of the above.  


Yeah, if only you were called to the board to answer that question, and not to write 'I thought I was smart enough to zone out on social media and ignore your lectures, but I'm actually rather stupid' for everyone to see. Admitting to these insufferable students that they're right when they assume you're a hopeless humanities major hurts in the exact and only way you don't like. It's tough pretending, huh? Your face burns when you pass the marker back to Professor Arclight with a bitten lip of an apology.

“Your honesty is much appreciated, Miss (Your Name),” he chuckles with an upturned taunting brow. “Ah,” he clicks his tongue as you start sulking your way back to your seat. “I think it would be to your benefit to sit up here. I can keep an eye on you and make sure you're attending to the information properly.” 

Read: You're going to sit at my side for the remainder of class so I can brush up against your back, sneakily stroke your thighs, and try to eek out a whisper of a moan or whine while I highlight the fact that you haven't been allowed to have a full orgasm over the last week. Remember how close you were last night? Dangling right over the edge, tears in your eyes as you begged me to come, only for me to tear away the vibrator and laugh in your face? I remember it fondly. If you can get the next question right, I'll take you back to my office and give you what you want.

You don't get the question right. Christopher waits until his below average students have all filed out of the classroom before he locks the door, draws the blinds closed, and ignores all of your protests and questions, all of which are you asking a variant of 'hey asshole, I have another class after this, remember?' He doesn't care. He doesn't give a flying fuck about history classes. You have that in common. 

“You seem distracted,” he notes.

“Hate to break it to you, but Twitter arguments are infinitely more interesting than your class.” 

Doctor Arclight twists his neck left and right as he stretches his arms above his head, long ponytail brushing against his back with every movement. “It would be wise to try and pay more attention. Unless, of course, you enjoy having eyes on you.” Much like his own, idly examining you up and down. A crowd of eyes... Maybe. You do blend in quite well. 

“Depends on the...” You pause, blinking. Christopher unclasps his necklace for seemingly no reason, and you're a little on edge. “Situation... If you were gonna fuck me in front of the class, I don't think I'd... be...” You're terribly perplexed. Professor Arclight's sleek ponytail comes undone with a careful flick of his wrist, long silver locks slowly shaken out and fluffed up with his slender hands. “What are you doing?” 

“Your excuses bore me, Miss (Your Name).” He flips his hair over his shoulders, as if to make sure you can see his teardrop sapphire earrings. They match his eyes, because of course they do; this guy's meticulous as all hell, and holy fuck, he has a pair of his stiletto-heeled boots on underneath his slacks. Probably the ones that go up to his knees, shiny and sexy. Always intentional; you wonder if he keeps a literal planner for this: Ideas for Ruining Miss (Your Name)'s Day and Reputation.

Your recovery's as slow as your speech. “Why is your hair down? You never wear your hair... down... to class...” There's no rhyme or reason as to what's happening. Christopher makes a show of stretching his upper arms at the elbow, hands at his upper back. This is not the Magic Mike shit you signed up for on the class registration page, but you're not complaining when he hoists his sweater up over his head, slowly pulling each arm out as he saunters closer. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?” 

Christopher undoes his belt, slipping it over his arm and wrapping it around his wrist a few times as he finally closes the gap between the two of you. The clacking of his heels suddenly becomes especially mesmerizing, music to your ears. You're practically bending over backwards (not for him, but kind of), ass against the edge of the desk, the glower in his eyes making you feel like you've just been caught out past curfew. Or caught flirting with your lab partner. It's probably the latter. 

“Am I not pretty enough for you, Miss (Your Name)?” 

You have to crawl backwards onto the desk like the spineless bitch you are – he knows you left your backbone at your rundown apartment. Christopher follows, one knee on the edge, arms keeping him in place above your body. He grins with a devilish glint, and you really want to punch him in the mouth and watch all his pearly white teeth chip and fall out in a cascade of karma. 

“You always tell me how beautiful I am...” He huffs a little, a slight sigh, and you have no idea what the fuck to expect. Christopher likes to pretend he's forward and blunt and never minces words, but his mind's one big maze of riddles, and translating his very tone presents you with a set of problems that none of his fancy equations can answer. “Am I not your cute little professor anymore, Miss (Your Name)?” 

It's his sub voice. He's using his fucking cutesy, bratty sub voice while acting like a demanding dom, and it confuses you in such a curious, tempting manner. You can't figure out if you're supposed to shut up and listen, or flip him over and straddle him with praise. Christopher's hovering in front of you like a problem on impulse-momentum, a sudden pop quiz in how to treat your puzzling switch boyfriend-but-not-boyfriend. You can't find answers no matter how much you crawl backwards onto his desk; there's no answer key to peek at, (Your Name). 

“I mean, um... You are? Cute, I mean...” You're reminded of the comment thread on the class Facebook page where one of the failing creative writing majors compared his smile to the warmth one might feel on a midsummer night underneath the stars. If only they knew.

He frowns, almost pouting his lips, the layer of peachy nude gloss shining in the unforgiving overhead light. A deep whine rattles in his throat. He's fucking whining, (Your Name). What did you do? “I'm having a hard time believing you. I only want to hear the very things you tell me every night. Is that so much to ask?” 

“It's... I'm...?” 

“Please?” 

Your next breath is sudden, heart jumping in glee because holy shit, you love him when he's pathetic, but the pathetic sub angle and pathetic dom angle are two different things and absolutely deserving of an equation in a textbook. You're getting wet, venturing into the unknown and wondering how this is going to play out. 

“You're...” You get tongue-tied. He leans in. You back away. He tilts his head. You brush the smooth silver strands out of his eyes. He smiles. His lip gloss has silver iridescent glitter. It's warm and starry. You crack. “You're very beautiful, Doctor.” Doctor? Pet? Sir? Slave? “You turn heads no matter where you go. Everyone knows you're gorgeous. Sexy, stunning... No one can keep their eyes off of you.” 

“Then why,” Christopher's face darkens, features going hard and stony, voice low and threatening, “are you not paying attention in any of my lectures, Miss (Your Name)?” There it is. The other Oxford drops, or stiletto in this case. Christopher grips you by the shoulders, bony fingers digging into your skin with a purpose that demands attention. “Do you really think you're so much more intelligent than me? Than your peers?” He scoffs, reminding you exactly why you're passing this class despite both of you knowing it's impossible to forget. “An exercise in thermodynamics. Over my desk, Miss (Your Name). Now.” 

Your shoulders throb when he releases you. There's an ugly impression of his belt buckle aching against your skin, branding you with a logo of luxury. YSL, synonymous with CVA. A cerebrovascular accident would be preferable in this moment, but alas. You know the drill: bend over the desk, tug down your jeans, and present Doctor Arclight with your bare ass for him to do with as he pleases. He still wears the belt around his forearm, and he skips the squeezes and kneads in favor of cracking the leather against your skin. You thought you knew how to count, but Christopher tells you otherwise. Heat spreads through your cheeks, upper and lower, and if every lesson on thermodynamics were like this, you'd have the easiest A of your life.

“You'll miss your next class if you can't figure out how to count.” 

“Fuck you.” The belt shifts, buckle slamming against you with a strong, piercing sting. “Motherfucker! Ow! You're...” You bite your tongue. The cipher becomes a little more clear. “You're so fucking sexy, Doctor.” He told you what he wanted. Leather kisses your ass, the metal portion back in his palm. “You're insanely intelligent.” Crack. “You're smarter than all of your peers.” Smack. “You make me feel so fucking good, even when I've been bad.” Slap. “You're easily the hottest person I've ever laid eyes on.” A spanking without the belt. Thermodynamics. You're blushing. There's a law for that, and you're not above it. “I get jealous when people stare at you.” 

“Aww,” he teases aggressively, an infuriatingly sexy chuckle mixed with the insulting tone. “You're getting desperate to please me, aren't you?” 

“I live to serve, sir.” 

“Such a good little girl,” he whispers. The hand on your swollen cheek travels closer to the center of your ass, a curious finger dipping into you in exploration. You squirm, not used to the sensation (his nails are filed into an almond shape), and he huffs with a note of amusement. “So dedicated to helping me with my research... Are you still curious about the results?” 

Everyone and their dog wants to know what Professor Arclight's personal research entails. He plays his cards so close to his chest, they might as well be sewn to his skin. You've been watching him with eagle eyes over the weeks with nothing to show for it, probably because his general expression is flat and unassuming on a good day. Christopher, however, has a very clear-cut question with an answer that might as well be presented to him on a tablet littered with hieroglyphics from an ancient, unknown civilization. 

Research hypothesis: Christopher Arclight, age 27, is unfortunately capable of harboring sentiment and emotion towards another human being.

Null hypothesis: Christopher Arclight, age 27, cannot feel things outside of sex.

You, however, can certainly feel things. Like the fingers scissoring your ass, and this slimy-ass creep has been carrying a vial of water-based lube in his back pocket long enough for it to be warm. Always prepared for the next step of your anal training, because as fun as the female vagina is, Christopher misses shoving his dick in his partner's ass. He entertains your questions about his ex-partner if he's in a good enough mood (so he's answered exactly three questions), and per your interpretation, the guy was an asshole. He and Chris have that in common. 

“Behave,” he instructs, “and keep this perfectly in place.” 

“What kind of person,” you grunt at the sensation of a thick piece of silicone being wedged up your ass, “keeps a butt plug in their desk drawer?” It's thicker than the one from last week, certainly longer. It makes itself known with every twitch of your muscles.

“Complex problems call for creative solutions.” 

“Any chance you have a vibrator laying around so I can get off?” 

He does. A simple bullet vibe for the simple girl that often comes around begging for orgasms between classes. Christopher wraps his arm around your hips and dips his hand against your clit, vibrator loudly and happily pulsating in a pattern of ecstasy that has you moaning Doctor Arclight's name into an empty classroom. The thought of the entire Physics 101 goon-squad watching you get off makes your core quake with desire. You loved being on display earlier, didn't you? Wear that YSL bruise with pride, (Your Name), because it's the only way anyone's gonna know that you belong to your professor. Your shitty, stupid, pompous prick of a professor, who pulls the vibrator away at the perfectly worst time. 

“God damn it,” you whine with a bitter laugh. Right at the edge with nothing to show for it. It's rule 22ish: announce that you're close. He uses it to his advantage most days. Your forehead touches the desk, cool against flushed skin, your shoulders shaking out of frustration. “Just let me come for once in my miserable life.” 

“You've a flair for dramatics,” he hums. “Did you black out last weekend?” A weekend wherein you most definitely overdosed on oxytocin. Dopamine. Endorphins. Multiple neurotransmitters, to be honest.

“You suck.” You finally flip over and work at tugging up your jeans, the butt plug teasingly grazing against you in a way that will remind you all day that yet another orgasm was ruined by Christopher - intentionally this time. “Just 'cause I zoned out during a lecture?” 

Christopher pulls his turtleneck back on, delicately freeing his freakishly silver hair from beneath the fabric to avoid any snags. He himself zones out for a split second, thinking about last weekend; how he told you that you're the only one who's ever pulled his hair, how his ex-partner apparently didn't take advantage of Christopher's not-so-secret desire to be pushed around like a worthless, pretty doll. He only enjoys it in the physical sense; you should know better. “You know full well what you did,” he finally answers.

“We were talking, and she's pretty. I didn't do anything else.” Your phone suddenly feels especially heavy in your back pocket.

“Get to your next class, (Your Name).”

“Lighten up,” you frown. “No prissy fits on Fridays, please and thanks.” 

“Your next class, (Your Name).” Chris double-checks his reflection in the window, refusing to leave any evidence of your brief yet taboo interaction. 

“What would you do to me if it weren't just sexting?” 

The weight of the question knocks him for a loop. If the null hypothesis is true, Christopher wouldn't feel the rising anger in his chest, blood flowing green and ugly. His skin's practically transparent as it is; he doesn't need the rest of him to be just as see-through. Being with you without being 'with you' brings more questions than answers, though. Christopher dedicates his life to answering hypotheticals about the universe, galaxies near and far, but knowing when stars are going to die doesn't help him figure out the black hole constantly at work in his head whenever you're around. You've been sucked into that space and, as physics dictates, he hasn't been able to pry you out of his mind and back into the real world where he can leave you behind. 

If the null hypothesis is true, Christopher wouldn't be worried about what happens next. But he is. And he hates it.


	2. Regression Analysis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hot night out at the club turned into a cold night in - what were you expecting?

Friday night, you find yourself in your sanctuary. Literally called Sanctuary, off the corner of 9th and Laurel, nestled between an oddly upscale salon and a rundown yet kitschy bookstore. Your aesthetic's either known by the city planners, or it's one of the only positive twists of fate to bless your loathsome existence. You're still 22, per your government-issued ID, and tonight's bouncer remembers you well enough to simply spare the card a second-long glance before wishing you a good time. It really bothers you that your first thought is 'gee, I really hope the big burly dude at the door doesn't know Chris.' Rule 30-something: No more going to kink clubs. You're counting on Doctor Arclight to spend his Friday night the same way he always does: Sitting in the sprawling living room, eating a skinless chicken breast with a side of leafy greens while listening to the newest episode of NASA's Gravity Assist podcast. 

The bass-heavy track from Dope Stars Inc makes it challenging to hear yourself in your own head, so you're incredibly surprised to hear your name shouted over the music. You turn, and sure enough, there she is. The Lab Partner in the flesh, outside of school, outside of texts, and you still can't remember her fucking name. You're in too deep to ask at this point. She's eternally “Lab Partner” in your mind and phone. And ugh, she's hot. Leather harnesses should be illegal. 

“Thought you were messing with me,” she grins. Texts from last night included 'Kinda miss the shitty club music' and 'I used to get wrecked in the back room at Sanctuary.' The others... You won't repeat them. The walls have ears.

“I mean,” you shrug, “I'd like to.” 

“Buy me a drink first.” 

So you buy her a cosmo and retreat to the back room you're most familiar with, the only one where you haven't been hooked up to the wall and fucked relentlessly with a silicone dick. The sofa done up in fake leather smells like bleached lemons and simpler times. Her heels sit in your lap, multiple needless and sexy buckles tempting you to take them off and kiss her feet. Christopher has a similar pair with taller heels, and you despise that you're thinking of him in the presence of a woman who keeps eyeing you with a teasing smirk and explorative toes. 

“You look nice,” she offers. You wish you could remember her name. Rose? Crystal? Christina? God damn it, Christina? Are you serious, (Your Name)?

“I'm literally in faded black jeans and a matching shirt.” 

“I have eyes,” she laughs, glass at her lips. “So does Doctor Arclight, apparently.” Oh, she has a cute little eyebrow piercing. It catches your eye only because she's making a face that screams 'caught ya, teehee.' Caught red-handed, actually, and not because your palms are sore from clawing at rope and chain. 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” you bristle. You've already finished your gin and tonic; they really outta make them bigger, but here you are, way too sober for this conversation. 

“Be honest,” your lab partner smirks, bringing the toe of her boot up to your chin, asking you to look at her. She doesn't fight fair – you'd love it if Chris weren't somehow involved. “You're fucking Professor Arclight.” 

“He's gonna wave your failing labs around again if you don't call him Doctor.” 

“What does he do to  _ you _ if you don't call him Doctor?” 

“I have to write humiliating shit on the board.” 

“Behind closed doors?” 

Depends on the doors, you want to say. Call him anything but Doctor in the classroom, and he's sure to leave bruises. He's more forgiving in the bedroom, because he thrives on blurred lines. The faculty room though... You still dream about it. Each footstep in the hall filled you with the most exquisite kind of fear, the one that would make Chris thrust even harder, or shove his fingers into your mouth to act as the type of gag you absolutely cannot bite down on. You got to come all over the break room table. You cleaned up your drool with Professor Wyatt's jacket. You made a joke about fucking him in order to get the comments about Christopher's appearance to stop. If you thought Doctor Arclight was pissed then, imagine how mad he's gonna be if he finds out about this. 

You've imagined it, and you want it. 

“Depends on the scene.” Fuck it. She's got a solid read on you anyway. Who's she gonna tell? Her one friend in Modern Poetry? She's giggling in shock, heel now digging into your thigh. “Harder, please.” Take me out of the plane of reality and into one where I only feel the good kind of pain, Miss Lab Lady. You've once again imagined how mad he's going to be, and you really want to Ctrl+Z the last six words you've said.

“He does scenes?” She sits up. She's intrigued. She probably has a crush on him. She has terrible taste. The cosmo should've clued you in, or her sexting you over the last few days. “Like more than just the teacher-student stuff?” 

“I've been his student, secretary, maid, patient, owner...”

“Hold on,” she laughs. “He's got a sub streak?” 

“Huge.” 

“Like his dick, or...?” 

“Average.” 

“Does he know you're here?” 

“No.” 

“What if he finds out?” 

What if he finds out, (Your Name)? What if he finds out that you're suddenly locking lips with the nameless lab girl? What if he finds out she's a better kisser than him, that her lips move against yours with restrained urgency and her tongue doesn't try to choke you out one minute in? What if he finds out that you took her back to the dungeon and tied her up in front of multiple onlookers who watched very respectfully and from a distance? What if he finds out that you actually follow her instructions and wordlessly bend over in front of perfect strangers and count loudly for all to hear? What if he finds out you're eventually suspended from the ceiling in a well-crafted teardrop hogtie, breasts on display while your stand-in dominatrix rips clothespins from your soft flesh and nipples? That she kisses each mark on your skin in apology and seems legitimately concerned when you wince now and then? 

What if the missed texts messages on your phone are from him, (Your Name)? 

>> Where

>> Are

>> You.

There's not a chance you play this off as another rousing, terrifying game of hide and seek. You were ecstatic when he found you last time. The dread you feel now is far from fiction, though. You thank your lab partner for the night of forbidden activity; she leaves you with a smirk, eyeing the way your lip threads between your teeth while you stare at your phone, constantly typing and erasing a slew of made up excuses that Christopher will likely never believe. He's smart, he's savvy, he knows you're up to no good on an average Friday night, but you're usually home for that. The air outside feels especially chilly for mid-March; icy, even, much like the aura you usually see paired with startling blue eyes and a waterfall of silver hair. 

Christopher Arclight leans against his car, perched directly across the street, staring you down with a look that says he's going to ruin your entire minuscule excuse of a life. Your blood runs cold, feet frozen in place; this is not the kind of temperature play you enjoy. Chris holds up his phone, yours vibrating shortly after.

>> You're in an obscene amount of trouble, Miss (Your Name).

Those same two fingers from class beckon you over. He's kind enough to open the passenger door for you, a stark contrast to the smoky, spicy cologne stuck to his neck and wrists. You catch a glimmer of your reflection in his silver earrings, and when you finally sit down, he slams the door in a way that makes you wish the vibrations would melt you out of existence. If he wasn't so pissed off, you'd ask about the physics behind the concept.

“Did you have a good time?” He asks. The car shifts gears to make up for the fact that he won't. 

“I uh...” You shift in your seat, still cold the longer his glare lingers on your profile. “It was...” Don't freeze, (Your Name); fight back. You finally muster up the courage to stare him down and tell him you can do whatever the fuck you want, because you're a grown-ass adult who's allowed to make terrible life choices, but his outfit stops you in your thoughtful tracks. Just one piece, actually: the chunky black boots with silver heels. Not the skinny jeans, not the skin-tight shirt with the top buttons undone, not the corset-like choker. The boots. The same boots that caught your eye when you were hanging from the ceiling, when you could only make out people's feet from behind your slipping blindfold. 

“You were there.”

“Don't speak unless you're spoken to, Miss (Your Name).” 

“You were fucking there!” You accuse. “You were watching!” 

“I do enjoy it when you put on a show.” 

“Then why the fuck am I in trouble?!” 

“Because,” he breathes slowly, knuckle-white grip on the steering wheel, “you were there with Miss...” He doesn't remember her name either, and pause; there's only one 'Miss,' and it's you.

“Don't call her that.” 

“You're in no position to whine and complain. Now unless I tell you to speak,” his eyes sear into your skin from behind long swipes of mascara, “you're going to sit there, and stay perfectly silent.” 

You're a legal adult, old enough to go to fetish clubs and drink with an attractive woman who's also suffering in solidarity with you through introductory physics. You're a history major who really ought to know the value of learning from past experiences, but opts instead to do what might feel good in the moment, mistakes be damned. You're a switch who has a slight preference for the submissive side of life, but in this moment, you want nothing more than to make Doctor Arclight suck on an oversized dildo before you shove it up his ass and make him cry. Especially when the hood of a chic black jacket hooks over your Converse-clad foot, evidence of Christopher's ability to hide his freakish albino looks while in a public setting. 

“You're a rather clever girl when you want to be.” He speaks after ten long minutes of the silent treatment. You know to look at him when he speaks to you; even though he can take his eyes off the road, he stares straight ahead. “It baffles me that you found it wise to go to a local fetish club on Playground Night. Unless, of course, you were trying to get my attention. In which case,” his gaze flits to you for a short second, “let it be known that I've never stopped paying attention to you, (Your Name).” You can only assume he overheard you talking to her at the end of class, making thinly-veiled jokes about tattered erotica novels offering a much needed (you guessed it) sanctuary and reprieve from Doctor Arclight's class. Pretty careless of you; did you want to be caught? 

“And yet,” he tilts his head in feigned thoughtfulness, “you stop by my office time and again to beg for my attention. My home, my car,” he gestures vaguely around the cabin, “and you're never quite satisfied unless you get to come. All that attention, and it's never enough for you. You want more, to the point where I have to stop grading labs and reading over thesis papers just because you found it appropriate to act out for, yet again, more of my attention.” 

Boy do you feel small. Called out, pushed into a harsh spotlight, the audience and walls all made of mirrors, forcing you to face your truth. Unforgiving photons bouncing off of each surface until you crack, shattering all of the mirrors to reveal that yes, everything he's saying is true, and you hate it. You love his attention. You're always looking for ways to rouse him from his office, his house, just to rescue you from yourself. You love it when he listens to your beck and call, but now, you feel like a tiny little atom bouncing against the interior of his car, unable to break the laws of physics and free yourself from a painful reality. 

“So, Miss (Your Name).” The car pulls into the garage; his other vehicles are absent, moved to the detached garage across the driveway for reasons unknown. Chris turns to you, puts his hands in his lap, and smiles. “You have my attention. What can I do for you?” 

“Um...” You try to untangle your hair, flinching at the stench of leather and sweat. “I don't know.”

Christopher sighs, exits the car, and helps you get to your feet. His hands are surprisingly warm in yours, and he's still smiling. You know better than to trust that smile – you're in trouble, remember? It's in writing. Despite him calling you 'clever,' you've never quite figured out how convince him to lessen the blows. No amount of massaging, praising, sucking, and fucking has ever encouraged him to alter his punishments. Try another angle, a different vector; a binding without ropes. 

You hug him. It might be the first hug you've shared outside of aftercare. It's stiff, and you feel especially hot and awkward with your ear pressed to his chest. No one's heartbeat should be that soothing, but his is, and he doesn't seem to know it. After a moment's hesitation, he returns the gesture, albeit with an awkward pat on the back, because Christopher doesn't understand what's happening. If the null hypothesis is true, he wouldn't be hoping that you can't hear the change in rhythm and tempo of each beat of his heart. 

“I'm sorry, sir,” you mumble. 

Christopher realizes what's going on. He leans down, captures you in a gentle kiss, and for a split second, you think he might be convinced. Until he pulls away with a taunting smirk and a finger hooked under your chin. “A cute attempt, I'll give you that.” Your whining doesn't deter him from slinking over to one of many black plastic tote boxes and brandishing a pair of thick metal cuffs, chain just as heavy and intimidating. You keep whining when he slides his hands underneath your shirt, whisking it off and throwing it onto the top of the lidded trash bin. All of your other clothes follow suit no matter how many high-pitched groans of protest you manage to eek out. “Why am I throwing those away?” 

“They're dirty,” you grumble, arms coming up to cover your painfully hard nipples. No heat in the garage, no clothes, no loving dom to hold you until you've gone through the motions of winning his good graces back. 

“Why are they dirty?” He motions for you to turn around with a flick of his finger. He took the time to re-paint his nails black. He planned for this. You really need to find that fucking planner and run it through the industrial shredder at school. 

“I'm a dirty little girl.” The metal cuffs click shut, arms weighed down because Jesus Christ, those are thicker and heavier than you expected. 

“Look me in the eye and tell me what you are.” 

“I'm a dirty, disappointing little girl who...” Check the script, tap the mic, cringe at the feedback and the next few lines. “Who probably... needs to be punished by Daddy.” 

“You're so smart when you want to be,” Christopher compliments, albeit underhandedly. “I just can't understand why such a bright, pretty girl would forget one of the easiest concepts I've ever taught her.” He leans down to catch your eye, heels helping him clock in at six foot five, because he's an extra motherfucker who loves flexing what power he has over you in the most literal of ways. “You're mine, (Your Name).”

A shiver crawls through your body. It's the temperature. 

“I belong to you...” The concrete floor's cold enough to sap the color from your toes. You're assuming, anyway; you know better than to break eye contact. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm a disappointment and deserve to be punished.”

Chris hums. “I wonder... Would you rather get off instead?” 

“What...? I mean,” you shrug and shake it off. “Yes, Daddy. I'd be very happy if you let me come instead.” 

“Alright,” he nods, walking over to his obsessive-compulsive, anal retentive workbench, still wearing that stupidly sexy outfit that makes his ass look insanely good for never once having done a squat or lunge in his life (asthma, he claims; peak nerd energy). He hops up onto the bench, crosses his legs, tantalizingly swings his heels back and forth, and says “go ahead and come, princess.” 

You're naked in Chris Arclight's garage, sans a pair of metal shackles around your wrists, staring at your still-not-boyfriend in disbelief, because he's not supposed to be this crafty. You really upset him, didn't you? You want to knock over all of the little organizers and drawers on his workspace, but with your arms behind your back, you'd never be able to reach. You fingers can't even reach your asshole, your pussy, your anything. 

“I'm waiting,” he taunts, watching you glance around the concrete walls for an answer that doesn't involve power tools and science equipment. “Humanities majors are supposed to be creative, out-of-the-box thinkers, are they not?” He shrugs. “So get creative, princess.” 

Creativity and Christopher's garage go together like water and oil, or you and physics. If you wanted to try fucking yourself with a screwdriver or soldering iron, you could, but you're not that stupid despite what Chris often tells you in these scenes. You can't exactly maneuver your hands with ease, and Christopher takes the opportunity to laugh whenever you try to open boxes and totes, because you legitimately look like an idiot. He does gracefully exit for a moment to get you water, all the untouched storage lending itself to blankets of dust that keep making you cough no matter how long you hold your breath. You're floundering around aimlessly when the submissive fog lifts for a moment, because there's an obvious answer right in front of you, sheathed in black denim. 

“Be mindful of the ice,” Chris notes, tipping the glass against your lips. Can't even drink your own water without assistance, and of course he went the extra mile to make it especially cold. “I won't be playing with you until you figure this out.” He returns to his perch on the workbench, glass at his side, and huh, he sure has a lot of hooks littered around the wall behind him. On the ceiling. In that one box you tripped over earlier. He notices, and shoots you another exaggerated shrug. “You could have played here if you wanted, but you never asked.” Hooks and pulleys dangle from the ceiling. The bars mounted on the pegboard are spreaders of varying sizes. The man built his own dungeon. You could've had Playground Night here.

He thinks he's so fucking smart. But so are you.

“Can I sit in your lap, Daddy?” 

“If you can get up here, certainly.” 

It takes some awkward maneuvering, pushing a heavy duty storage tote with your legs to use as a step stool. It works, because you're just as crafty as he is, although you do lose your balance a couple times without the use of your arms. 

“It's no wonder you don't wear makeup,” he teases with a click of his tongue, running his thumb over your crimson cheeks. “You've no need for blush, do you?” 

Christopher's lap is pleasantly warm, at the very least. Rule number 2 (or something), keep your eyes on him unless physically impossible. And in this moment, it's plenty possible. You're rewarded for staring him down, lusting for the way his eyes go wider, the way his lips part with the smallest of gasps when you start to ride his thigh. Not an activity you've done with a man, per se, but he did tell you to get creative. He's trying to stay straight-lipped and pale-faced, and failing spectacularly. 

“Too hot in here, Daddy?” You inquire with a cheeky grin, grinding against his leg. Karma's slapped him in the face and left him with the cutest little red marks. You're also leaving a rather damp spot on his jeans, speeding up and slowing down depending on the way his brows position, or the way he bites his lip. You can't praise him through the moans, but the slow whine in your throat should be enough of a compliment. 

You're right: It's far too hot in here. He's the one in control, god damn it, not you. You're the one who ditched (ditched?) him tonight in favor of getting spanked and slapped by another student, a sea of eyes on you all the while. It should have been him. If the null hypothesis is true, he probably wouldn't have gone out of his way to dress up in a club-appropriate outfit, risking his identity for the sake of seeking you out. How pathetic. The grip on his power and control slips in response to your taunting smirk. You're nearing orgasm against his thigh, of all things, and he never expected it. It's too hot. Christopher has a reputation for maintaining an ice-cold aura, and he makes sure to remind you. 

“Oh my God!” You squeal in response to the ice cube against your breast. It draws circles and dances against your nipple, the nub officially hard enough to hurt. “Stop, stop, stop!” He stops, only to switch sides and give your other tit the same treatment. “I'm already cold, sir! Please, please, please! Stop it!”

“Give it time,” he scolds, “it'll melt eventually.” 

It does, only after he runs it down your chest and over your stomach and onto your thighs. He leaves a frigid trail of water dripping down your body, evaporating off of your skin in an already-cold, hardly-insulated garage. A trick to make you ride him harder and faster, searching for more friction and heat, because no matter the scene, Doctor Arclight's here to remind you that he's your physics professor, and this is ethically wrong. 

“Can I come?” You gasp.

“These are new jeans, princess.” 

“I'm just following instructions, please!” 

Christopher can't stand how sexy you look in this moment. Ice water drips down your breasts, you're forcing yourself to look at him despite the obvious pleasure you in, and God, you're wet enough to sufficiently mark his pants. If you weren't such a bad girl, he'd probably fuck you right here and now. But you were such a bad girl, (Your Name), running off with another woman just to get his attention... You should probably--

“Consider yourself lucky, princess.” 

“Does that mean--?” 

“Come for me, (Your Name).” 

You can't fight against your heavy eyelids as a strangled moan of relief echoes off the concrete walls. You feel the telltale contractions in your pussy, clit twitching while you fuck and ride Doctor Arclight's thigh. The involuntary spasms send pulses of pleasure through – and out of – your body. Christopher fails to stifle the deep groan in his throat as your orgasm drips onto his thigh, mopped up by Daddy's brand new Neiman Marcus jeans. An eight hundred dollar mistake. 

“Finish your water and I'll take you inside.” Christopher helps you drink, and the afterglow's too good for you to feel embarrassed. “All of it.” The water's gone. Chris takes the other half-melted ice cubes in hand and lifts you from his lap just enough to slip them against your slit. You groan, squeal, make pathetic whines and cries; all he does his smirk and hold you down as you writhe against his leg. “Don't let them slip, Miss (Your Name).” 

“It's so fucking cold, Daddy, please let me up!” It doesn't matter how much heat your body released mid or post-orgasm. This is cold. “Please!” You try to rest your forehead against his shoulder, but he's not having it. His fingers jerk your chin back to his face, and he's livid. “I...” 

“Keep your pretty little eyes on me. Basic rules, Miss (Your Name).”

“I'm sorry.” 

“Are you?” His eyes are somehow colder than you. Your blood might freeze in its tracks if you keep staring at him, but rules are rules. Ah, that's right. No going to kink clubs. There's likely a rule in there about fucking around with someone else, too. This probably wasn't what he meant when he checked the cuckolding boxes on that questionnaire. Rules... They're made to be broken, aren't they? 

“I'm very, very sorry, Daddy. I'll behave.” The pit in your stomach confirms that you're actually guilty. A truly gross feeling despite the frigid puddle you're sitting in. 

The ice melts. Despite his raging erection, Christopher uses his hands for better and lifts you from his lap, setting you down with care before unshackling your wrists. He's not rubbing at them like usual, though, and he hardly makes eye contact as he ushers you inside with a vague motion of his hand. If the null hypothesis – fuck the null hypothesis. 

“Uh... Chris?” 

“Hm.” Cold. You're getting colder.

“Can you stop for just one second?” His steps are long and heavy, and when he finally takes his shoes off (you're amazed he can balance on such tall heels), he drops them on the floor. Meticulous, organized, put-your-shoes-on-the-rack Chris Arclight, has left his shoes on the floor. “Chris, what the fuck is going on?” 

“Taking you upstairs,” he says, clipped and to the point, taking the stairs two at a time. “I said I'd take care of you.” 

“Fuck me,” you sigh, “is this about--?” 

“Pick out your clothes while I run you a bath.” 

The water's hot – you're literally and figuratively in hot water. Chris makes up for ignoring your aching wrists, running his hands over the same spot over and over, lathering overpriced body wash that smells like ylang-ylang on your skin. Usually you exchange little stories from classes, talk about what you get up to in your free time, but it's dead silent, save for the water trickling into the tub each time Chris lifts the washcloth. 

“Okay, I can't stand the quiet.” The master bathtub could probably hold four people, because Christopher has to remind himself just how much money he has, as if he'd forget just looking at his reflection. You pull your arm away and shift to the other side of the tub in order to follow the rules and look him in the eye. “Are you mad that I went out, or mad that I messed around with the girl from class?” 

“I didn't realize it had to be one or the other.”

“According to you, we're not in a relationship, so what's the problem?” 

“The problem,” Christopher mutters, dipping into the water to wash your feet, “should be fairly obvious, given all you've said.” 

“You want to be exclusive friends with benefits?” 

“That's... Not entirely correct.” Requires further study, or requires Christopher being honest.

“So as long as I'm with you, but also not 'with' you,” air quotes for emphasis, “I can't date other people.” He nods, as if to say it's an obvious answer. You scoff. “So you want to be in a relationship without actually being in one.” 

“(Your Name),” he sighs again, plenty of anger in every breath and huff. “I've told you what kind of position this puts me in. I've already been investigated once for alleged sexual harassment, and if anyone finds out about this, I'll lose my job.” 

“You don't even like teaching,” you grumble, far too bitter with the situation and yourself. It doesn't help with Christopher's usual honey-sweet words are sharp and biting against your ego. “But I get it. Shit's complicated. And uh... Sorry for, y'know...”

Doctor Arclight stays composed and quiet, scrubbing your feet and calves with a little less vigor than before. The minutes pass in stillness until he gestures for you to lean against the lip of the tub, offering you a small kiss in reply. “You're driving me insane, you know.” 

“I didn't sleep with her, if that helps.” 

“Your restraint is mildly appreciated.”

“You didn't tell me if you liked the show.” 

Christopher debates shoving you under water. You should applaud his patience. “We can do better here.”

You're back, baby.

“That didn't feel like an entire punishment,” you muse. “Or one at all, really.” 

“Oh, it wasn't,” he admits. “I need a little more time.” 

“For my punishment, or for your alleged research?” 

“Both, technically speaking.” It's weird, the way he smiles at you as time goes on. He washes your body and feels as though he's washing away some of his own confusion, but it's fleeting, comes right back like an ironically cruel boomerang. “What do you get out of calling this a relationship?” 

Security. Stability. The promise of pain and pleasure that you can't find in the confines of your own bedroom. Being with someone who seems to be genuinely curious, at times, behind closed doors, about who you are and what you're doing with your life. And if you're being honest, the forbidden nature of it all gives you an ongoing thrill, multiple shots of adrenaline that you're definitely addicted to by now. And, uh, his bank account is a nice plus. You could say all of that, or you could just shrug.

“Can I sleep with you tonight, or am I in too much trouble?” You ask, flipping a curtain of still-damp hair behind your back after Chris helps you into your pajamas. 

“If you can promise me that you won't kick me awake.” 

“You've been through worse.” 

You have a point. He doesn't want you to have a point, because he's still upset in a very odd, roundabout way. He can't tell if it's fueled by legitimate jealousy, or simply because he's looking for an excuse to carry out a fantasy his last partner refused to entertain. Tonight, he's too tired for testing; he cuddles up with you instead, finding a non-zero amount of calmness among the chaos.


	3. Single-Sample T-Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food, water, make-up: a tense snapshot of domestic life.

Question: What is it that convinces Christopher to keep you around? 

A) The sexual chemistry. B) The vague sense of companionship. C) The fear of loneliness. D) The fulfillment of being relied on. E) You. 


It's been a month and Christopher Arclight cannot figure you out. You're a history major writing a thesis on the impact of romanticism on late Christianity in New England, which doesn't make any inherent sense to him, because you're an atheist who somehow sees value in organized religion for states that you've never once stepped foot in. You're a bratty sub and a sometimes-soft sometimes-hard dom depending seemingly on the weather, or the way the stars align that night. By all accounts, you're a pain in his ass, but he keeps you around for reasons unknown to both you and him. You also like to lounge on the sprawling sectional in his living room and watch reruns of The Twilight Zone, which ought to irritate him because he likes the show too, but tonight he's content to let your legs rest atop his while the woman in black and white realizes that she's a mannequin and not a real person. Must be nice. 

It's been a month and you have Christopher Arclight down to more of a science that you care to admit. He's a shitty physics professor who truly dislikes his job and teaches solely because there's nothing else for him to do with his degree, and he's not good at much else. You've pinned him as an INTJ, much to his dismay, because 'you know that's not a validated and reliable measure of personality,' except it is in his case. He owns far too many pairs of boots and heels, all too pretty but not as pretty as him, of course, and there's an entire set of drawers in his closet dedicated to chokers and earrings. He won't wear a dress for you yet, but he's hinted at being okay with 'other things,' if you can ever decode his intricate hints. You also know he'd probably drop dead without someone taking care of him, and you constantly wonder how the fuck he made it this long after his last break-up.

“You need to eat, Doctor Dumbass.” 

Doctor Arclight likely maintains his stick-figure body by virtue of consuming most of his calories via coffee creamer and the occasional shared dinner with you, which you want to believe is done in date-like fashion despite never stepping foot out of his house. Too risky, he explains, despite the rather blatant show he makes of you in his classroom at least once a week. Your order Korean and tell Christopher to try and be less of a painfully white guy to mentally prepare him for a spice that isn't just black pepper and whatever the hell goes into Mrs. Dash seasoning. He tries it, coughs, and pulls a TV-perfect Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt moment that ultimately makes you laugh despite the glare from behind his napkin.

“Calm down,” you grin, showing off that you know how to use chopsticks better than he does, “I'm laughing at your weak constitution, not the fact that you sneeze like a girl.” 

“I'm used to being berated for both,” he grumbles. He can eat white rice, at least. Matches his skin and how interesting he is as a person. You don't want to admit that he might be the simple carbohydrate of a man that you actually need in your life. 

“I can't tell if you're mad at me for laughing, or if you're still pissed off about last night.”

Last night? Of course he's still pissed off about last night. Who wouldn't be pissed off about last fucking night? He found you half-naked with another student at a kink club, of course he's mad. You're still playing it off like it was nothing, much to his chagrin, and today it's like it never happened. He certainly didn't appreciate your pre-bed joke about wanting to experience someone who wasn't super bony and built like a teenage Mark Zuckerberg either. Yeah, he's still pissed off about last night. He warned you, remember? 

“It's beyond me,” he mumbles, “that you expect me to have slept this off.” 

“I was at a club with her, I didn't sleep with her.” God, this bibimbap tastes good. Even better when it's seasoned with one of his bitch-fits, and when you don't have to pay for it. Christopher's been throwing his assets in your face ever since you got back to his house, silently begging you to tell him that he's worth something to you. He's a findom weirdo with a huge-ass trust fund, and you fully intend on taking advantage of him. It's not a relationship – you don't owe him shit, and he gives/buys you the world. A beautiful transaction, really. “And we're not together, per your decision.” 

“It's not a relationship,” he confirms coolly, adamant that you're not together while also rubbing your foot in an oddly tender gesture. The captain of mixed messages who really ought to be promoted to general. He likes you, but maybe because your feet are soft and uncalloused and hm, it's been a couple of weeks since he got off. The utter dismay you portray every time he gets to deny you just gives him all the more reason to not give in and be in perfect control, but the way your foot feels in his hand gives him urges.

“Then why can't I fuck other people?” 

“Because you belong to me.” Chris slips off one of your socks with a hooked finger; you don't fight him.

“Can't rope you into a threesome?” 

“Not easily.” The other sock follows suit. You have really cold feet, and the loving dom side of him wants you to get checked for Raynaud's syndrome. The weak, pitiful sub side loves it when you bring your cold extremities into the bedroom. He thinks about demanding a footjob while you speak.

“So me and your ex-boyfriend, got it,” you joke, flat and dry. He doesn't say no; make a mental note of that, (Your Name), and don't misplace it like you do with your physics notebook. You rub your foot against his hand. “Ever come up with a name for what this is?”

“A sort of quasi-relationship.” He always starts with a massage, and this time's no different. The number of mini-lectures you've received on friction... You should start fining him, really. Especially now that he's taken to calling on you in class, asking for specific examples about heat and temperature, because he's a cheeky bitch.

“Will you finally let this go if I let you play with my feet?” You're the one who keeps bringing it up, you know.

“Perhaps.” Read: Never.

Chris runs his nails across the the soles of your feet, drinking in each stifled giggle and cute little squirm. He likes how high-pitched your voice gets when you laugh – you're beautifully out of control and at his mercy. Fuck if he knows why feet do it for him; he's looked for the literature high and low and no one knows why a kink becomes a kink, and it's a little embarrassing thinking about how much shit he got from his last partner, but you indulge him. You seem to like it when he works his hands against your arch, the way your eyes gently slip shut. You'll utter little words and phrases of encouragement when he kisses the top of your foot, reminding him that he's 'such a good boy, so attentive.' There's a brief moment of frustration when he realizes he's essentially rewarding you for kind of cheating on him (but not actually cheating on him at the same time), but he doesn't want to stop licking and sucking at your big toe, either, so he lets it slide. 

“What's the scientific explanation behind why this feels so good?” You ask with an air of relaxation that reeks of a poison begging you to slip into bratty sub mode.

“I can't say I know,” he answers, lips moving against your toes as he speaks. Power and control. Humiliation. The fact that as anal retentive as he is, Christopher wants to be dirty now and then. His mouth stops working at your right foot, hands teasing at the left with light tickles and whispering nails. 

“Stoooop,” you whine in exaggeration between laughs.

“Why would I stop when you clearly enjoy it?” 

“Because you're a respectable man who honors my personal boundaries.” 

A rare moment: Doctor Arclight giving you a throaty laugh that doesn't sound forced or pained, no trace evidence of sarcasm. Unfortunate that it's because the idea of him being respectful is literally laughable. He ignores your protests when you tell him you're not going to kiss him because his lips literally just left your toes, and doesn't try to pull away until he realizes you taste like chili pepper flakes and ginger. You're not too spicy for Doctor Arclight; imagine that.

Your arms wrap around his neck, demanding that his lips keep lacing with yours despite the heat that you really think he'd learn to enjoy if he ever allows himself to break free of his overly constricted personality and affect. You nip at his lower lip, licking each area you bite and suck at, giggling when he finds himself giving in and returning the gestures. Once you think his guard's down, your hand snakes underneath his perfectly pressed slacks, only for Christopher to smack your hand and roughly pin it above your head. 

“Bad girl,” he whispers with half-lidded eyes. “Use your words, Miss (Your Name).” 

“I want your dick.” 

“Patience is a virtue.” Christopher wants you to see him as an ever-pure, flawless, virtuous man. Which is funny, because you both just shared a giggle over him understanding boundaries and respect. 

“Let's revisit the idea of that chastity belt, then.” 

“You would look quite pretty in a leather harness.” 

“Is that how you're going to get back at me, Doctor?”

Christopher already knows how he's going to pay you back. It's going to take time, effort, and planning, and right now he's too exhausted from serving on six different thesis committees and trying to constantly wrangle two classrooms of introductory students, plus one astronomy course and whatever the hell else gets assigned to him each turn of the semester. 

“Patience, sweetheart,” he repeats, helping you out of your top. 

“Virtuous prick,” you mumble, unhooking your bra. “Why are you calling me that?” 

“Not a good fit, is it?” Christopher gives you one more kiss before excusing himself to shut up the electric kettle screeching in the adjacent kitchen. Ginger tea after every meal, like clockwork, because it's 'good for digestion, Miss (Your Name).' Except neither of you can drink it straight, needing copious amounts of honey; there's an idea. Chris sets down two ridiculously chic black-and-gold cups on matching saucers and resumes his haughty care-giving routine. 

“Tell me when to stop.” The honey drips out of the bottle slowly, thick and shiny under the soft chandelier lighting.

“Stop.”

He stops with a smile and doesn't motion to close the lid. Instead, he pushes you onto your back and tips the bottle over your bare chest. “Tell me when to stop, honey.” 

“You cheeky motherfucker,” you breathe through a grin. It's sticky, a certifiably gloopy mess falling in strings all over your breasts and stomach. “Stop and clean up your mess.” Neat freak that he is, Christopher takes off his shirt before dipping his lips to your neck. “There's nothing there, idiot...” Just weak spots that fill your lungs with delicate, peaceful breaths. He keeps his teeth to himself, flicking his tongue against your skin as the kisses trail down to your chest. It's wet and slick, some of the sickly-sweet beads threatening to fall from your sides until Christopher laps them up with a purpose (probably fueled by the fear of needing to get his ten thousand dollar sofa steam-cleaned and having to explain 'well, we got honey all over it during foreplay, ha ha ha.') 

Christopher's familiar with your preferences now, taking extra time with each of your breasts, suckling at your nipples with hungry teeth and lips. He basks in the wispy moans, the little compliments you give him for being such a good boy, sucking harder when he hits an especially large pool of honey resting atop your soft flesh. He draws little constellations with his tongue across your stomach, mindful to clean up his mess as he looks up at you with curious eyes. It's fucking hot every time he does it, the way you can see his tongue lick up and down your body while his eyes glimmer with faux boyish innocence. 

“You're not done, Christopher,” you whisper. “You've made another mess.” 

“Yes, honey,” he chuckles at his own joke, and you don't tell him to not call you that stupidly sweet pet name. Your panties come off with your jeans, a blatant wet spot nestled in the crotch of your lacy hip-huggers. “Should I be covering you in syrups more often?” 

“If you don't shut up, I'll slather a gag in chili paste and shove it down your throat,” you threaten, squeezing his neck with your thighs. A grin tugs at your lips when he sucks in an involuntary breath. “You're gonna stop talking and clean up the mess you've made. Got it?” He finds it within himself to nod once, even as you cross your ankles and give him a rougher squeeze. “Good boy.” 

He hates that he can't taste you without the lingering notes of honey, but dutifully runs his tongue up and down your slit, kissing at the tender flesh. A clink of porcelain against porcelain causes a furrow of his brow, confusion lifting when you slowly trickle your tea down your lap. 

“I've been told it's good for digestion,” you tease. “Don't let any get on the couch.” 

Chris groans against your pussy, glaring up at you through his bangs because you know better than to willfully make a mess of his furniture. Nella Vetrina made this sectional specifically for him, (Your Name); spill tea on it and he'll make damn sure you can't sit on it for the next 24 hours. The lapping turns to sucking as he drinks the tea and your arousal, and oh, the warmth of the liquid against your clit as he sucks on it sends a strong shiver through your body and pulls a moan from your throat. He kisses up the remnants dribbling down your thigh, swallowing the drink but not his own wispy moans. 

“What tastes better – the tea, or me?” 

“You.” His voice vibrates against you, still diligently licking everything up. The heat from his tongue makes you squirm, thighs wrapped around his head to keep him in place.

“You really like eating pussy, huh?” 

“Mhm,” he sighs.

“Then why are you slowing down?” You groan, pulling him closer with your legs. His lips stop moving, and the last sensation against your clit is the feeling of his nose brushing against it as he tries to free himself from your vice-like thighs. “Christopher.” 

One last kiss against your leg. “Do you really think you deserve it after the stunt you pulled last night?” 

Cue power struggle. You keep Chris between your thighs while he tries to push himself up with his arms, both of you refusing to back down because you're indecisive switches who don't always see eye to eye (his fault for being so damn tall). He wins, only because he strategically bites your leg with his front teeth, the pinching catching you off-guard and giving him the strength to escape. The big brain, 200 IQ plays. 

“Seriously?” You sigh and fall back against the arm of the sectional. “I didn't fuck anyone else and I said I was sorry.” 

“And I said you still had a punishment waiting for you.” Christopher dabs at his lips with another napkin, methodically folding it after each pat. “Consider this a bit of a follow-up.” 

“Ask me a physics question.” 

“What?” He deadpans. 

“Ask me,” you repeat. “If I get it right, I get to come. Something I should know.” 

Christopher does like teaching you, and it'd stroke both his ego and his dick if you actually learned something from his lectures. He picks up the pen sitting atop a stack of graded quizzes, scribbles a basic diagram of a meter stick and fulcrum, and asks about which position you need to apply force to in order to maintain equilibrium. How to care for the power differentials in your relationship. Where you draw the line to keep him happy. You pick one of the tick marks on the diagram (not a complete guess, but most of one), and he blinks. 

“You got that question wrong on your quiz.” 

“So reward me for getting it right now. Treat me like the princess you know I am.” 

He settles on taking you upstairs, sitting you down in front of his vanity mirror, and doing your hair and makeup – you're his pretty princess, after all. You should be used to it by now, but it throws you for a loop every time he delicately washes your face and gingerly runs a comb through your hair. He smiles to himself when he paints your lips, highlights your cheekbones, does you up in six different eyeshadow colors; it never occurred to you just how much he'd like grooming you. Woefully ironic how that's the one thing lost on you, huh? 

“Can I,” you talk through a mist of setting spray, “watch you do your makeup instead?” 

“It's interesting that you make me out to be the one with all the strange kinks.”

“You've been hard ever since putting on my foundation.” 

There's no explanation for it yet. You're somehow pretty to him, even through you're not the type to turn heads (or his type at all, if he even has one of those). He likes dressing you in peplum tops and lolita-inspired dresses to wear around the house, and giving you smokey eyes and pastel pink lips depending on the occasion. His gut does this weird twist and dance whenever you tell him you're tired, annoyed, hungover. You managed to nick yourself pretty badly on a set of calipers in his lab, and everyone found it so odd that Doctor Arclight rushed to your side, and dear God, someone please save him from these fucked up Freudian nightmares.

“I've been aroused since our little rendezvous downstairs.” Deflect, deflect, deflect. 

“Shut up and put your face on. I'm dying to get off.” 

Not one to be outdone, Christopher adjusts the vanity mirror so he can see your reflection. He smirks as you roll your eyes and flip him off; he almost takes it as permission to film the ordeal instead, but he prefers the livestream approach. Interestingly enough, he does begin to fall into his routine, watching your in the mirror as your hand dips underneath your panties.

“God,” you breathe, “you're gorgeous.” Your fingers work gingerly against your clit in time with the brushstrokes against his face. Even without makeup, he's disgustingly pretty. Life must be easy when you're an intelligent rich kid with stunning looks and an annoying bout of wit when the time calls. Thank fuck he ended up being an asthmatic nerd. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Doctor. And your lips,” you stifle a wispy moan, “are ah...” What is it about praising the fuck out of him that gets you going? What happened to the side of you that just wants to tear his soul apart bit by bit? Where'd that (Your Name) go, hm? “Fuck, they're perfect, I don't know. Do you know how many of your students want to fuck you?” 

He doesn't, actually. Just the creepy, off-putting thesis girl who he can't quite brush off no matter how straightforward he is with her. Hearing about just how many people find him pretty does all the right things to his inflated ego and does nothing to help his throbbing dick, but that's what you're for. 

“And how much it kills me,” you groan as you slip a couple of fingers inside, constantly amazed at the sheer wetness every time you get into his bed, “that I can't tell them that I'm the lucky bitch who gets fucked by you nearly every day? I can't even brag,” your breath shudders at the addition of a third digit, “that I'm the one who picked out that nail color everyone loved on you. How I get to kiss your hands and feet and do everything you ask and demand.” 

Christopher bites back a grin and leans in as he does his signature eyeliner look. His hands slip ever so slightly, wing not at a perfect angle, and he doesn't mind. He watches you squirm on his bed as you shimmy out of your underwear, your head falling backward with each passing second. It dawns on him just how crafty you really are – he wants to jump up and tie you down, but he's bound by his own internal duty to himself to have his makeup perfectly in place. It makes his legs twitch, body turning at the waist, and he loves to hate that shit-eating grin and deep giggle you produce when you're caught playing your mind-games. 

“You make me feel so good, and fuck this is embarrassing, but I really want you to come all over my face and call me names. Right now.” Yeah, this was getting too sweet, too nice; you need it to be dirty and gross and just as pure as you are, right? Fuck up his work and wear the foundation you actually wanna wear, you nasty little girl.

The second he sets his makeup, he's on his feet in an oddly fast manner, taking quick long strides and practically leaping onto the bed and stopping right above your frame. The mattress shakes and bounces while you mutter an enthralled 'holy shit,' because the old Doctor Arclight has left the building. All that composure you just sucked him off for has been replaced by a wide smirk and eyes flaring with out-of-control lust. 

“I just spent all that time on your beautiful face,” he whispers against your cheek, leaving kisses against your jaw. “And you want to wear me, rather than my makeup.” You nod, unable to speak in reply to his mischievous tones. “You, Miss (Your Name), are a disgusting,” he hisses below your ear, “miserable little whore.” There it is. There's that rush of blood you've been missing. The kind of truth that doesn't hurt no matter the context. “So desperate for the world to know you're mine...” 

“Please, Doctor. I need it.” 

“You need to be used,” he corrects in hushed tones, holding your wrists above your head. He's not wrong, and you both know it. He wastes no time dipping his other fingers into your pussy, getting them nice and wet while he murmurs beautifully crafted insults in your ear. You're weak, pathetic, stupid and misguided, lacking in common sense and self-respect. Thank God he isn't a psychologist; if he was, you'd pay premium for his services. Right as he brushes against your g-spot, right as your hips buck, he pulls out and wiggles his fingers in a teasing wave right in front of your face. They catch the light in a gross taunt, because there's still a small voice asking you why the fuck you're with this guy, and you don't have an answer. “Open wide, Miss (Your Name). I'm a stickler for clean hands.” 

Fuck him and his witty little tasks, always getting what he wants. By the grace of operant conditioning, you get a little frisky every time he presents you with a free hand, and you want to hate him for it. You hate him, you insist as you take in his slender fingers, moaning against his bony joints and somehow finding joy in your own taste; you pair well with ginger and honey. You hate him, which is why you run your teeth against his palm and lick between each of his fingers. You fucking hate him, you lie to yourself, kissing the back of his hand and sucking on his ring finger, wrapping your tongue around it as if to claim him as your own. He swaps his hand for his cock, and you're on him in a flash.

If the null hypothesis is true, Christopher wouldn't be able to come on your face, because he likes to think he has a non-zero amount of respect for his students (see, he has a sense of humor). And you're still his student. You're the student who's eagerly sucking him off and hungrily licking at his cock while he flings insults that come to him so naturally he wonders if they're meant for him. If the null hypothesis is true, Christopher wouldn't enjoy feeling your lips around his dick; he'd find you repulsive and push you away, content to read gender-neutral erotica on his tablet and get off three weeks later, as is tradition.

But if the research hypothesis is true, he'd have an answer about who he is, what he likes and why, and sure, his study's flawed, but he should have an inkling of a correlation by now. Even still, he's empty-handed. Requires further testing, he figures. He pushes you off of him with a small 'pop' of your lips and finishes himself off with his hand, astounded with how pretty he finds you when he opens his eyes and sees his cum dripping across your cheeks and nose, enamored with the way it dribbles down to your lips and chin. You should feel like dirt, but you're on Cloud Nine; the edging lends itself to a disturbingly sexy amount of cum that sticks to your skin, pearly trails almost as warm as your face.

“Perhaps I was wrong,” he mutters in a daze. “You're quite pretty like this, Miss (Your Name).” After taking a quick picture of his achievements (you've dubbed it the scrapbook of shame), he straddles you at the waist, a fresh makeup brush in hand. “It's certainly an unconventional use, but it matches your complexion quite well.” Your face burns as he works his cum into your skin, pretending to touch up your makeup with a fluffy brush that tickles your skin the stickier the bristles become. “She's blushing... How adorable, embarrassed by the very thing she wanted. Begged for,” he corrects with a snarky smirk. He turns the brush in his hands, as if to carefully study it with a keen eye before trailing it down your neck, skipping down to your clit. You gasp, squirming underneath his body, and he chuckles in reply as he works the brush against you with a light touch. “Can I get you to come like this, Miss (Your Name)?” 

“Fuck you,” you mumble in a lust-ridden haze, lifting your hips and begging the brush to keep working. It's a little stiff, coated in a thin layer of his cum, and you want it. You need it. 

“You can't be that easy,” he teases. The brush continues its work against your sex, unflinching and just as delicate as before. “Hold it back, princess.” 

An insane request when that brush keeps painting you with a mix of his cum and your own juices, bristles whispering against your clit and touching parts of you that your fingers could never quite reach. It sneaks itself into the tiniest crevices, never rough or harsh – feather-light and teasing, and there's no way you're holding this orgasm back. You can't, and you don't want to; you're going to come, because it's better to beg for forgiveness than ask permission. Questions are for the classroom. Some of the bristles are still plenty soft, and maybe you're softer than you give yourself credit for, but you can't entertain ideas about your core personality when the core of your body shifts and tightens and explodes with an oddly strong orgasm, your face still tight with dried cum and a healthy dose of shame. You give a strangled cry, a low moan, and at least it's a cleaner orgasm, because when you open your eyes, Chris stares down at you with plenty of disdain and annoyance. No time to clean up the sheets when he's making it his top priority to clean up your attitude.

Christopher methodically tucks himself back into his slacks as he stares you down, adjusting his glasses with a single finger as he leans over you, lips barely hovering against yours. “Who will it be, Miss (Your Name): your little girlfriend, or me?” 

It shouldn't even be a question. He has the answer. He's the one with the big research project, exploring all the future possibilities, the present state of his chaotic mind. You live and breathe the past; you yourself are a confusingly open book who might rearrange the pages now and then, but you make it a point to guide him to the right places. History's written by the victor, (Your Name), and you're not coming out on top. Yet.

“You,” you answer.

Christopher takes you into the master bathroom and washes your face with all of his fancy, overpriced cleansers and lotions. You smell like eucalyptus and mint, and you almost prefer the scent of stale cum, if only for the memories that come with it. 

“You know she's not my girlfriend.” 

“So you've said.” 

“You have insane jealousy issues.” 

“I've been told as much, yes.” Doctor Arclight finishes moisturizing your face, and before he can entertain questions about the potential skin-related benefits of male ejaculate, he removes a hidden choker from behind the collar of his buttoned-up dress shirt, gently wrapping it around your neck. The leather's warm against your skin, and if you're reading the situation correctly, this is the exact kind of fucked up sentiment you were wanting. The pendant in the center is a crescent moon, because of course it is. Christopher has many aesthetics, but space will always been his favorite. “This is yours. Take good care of it.”

“I'll do my best, Doctor.” 

If the stupid-ass null hypothesis is true, Christopher wouldn't lean down and give you a surprisingly tender kiss, but he does. There's an internal conflict that his genius-tier brain can't quite decode, probably because he's terrible at picking up on foreign languages outside of programming. He needs a better operational definition for the alleged quasi-relationship too, but for now, this is enough to keep you on a short leash. It's never worked with anyone else, but it seems to work well enough with you. Which is odd, because Christopher loves a good chase. Time to find out if you feel the same.


	4. ANCOVA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher's passionate about identifying limitations to his studies. Yours, too.

Today you find out you actually didn't get a straight F on your physics exam. Is it the lowest C possible? Sure, but it's your C, and you've been given the chance to boost it to a B if you do exactly what Doctor Arclight tells you to do. You've been given instruction to meet him at his office after your last class, which sounds like business as usual, but he's nowhere to be found. A card key sits proudly atop his polished desk, a note written in disgustingly perfect cursive telling you where to go and to make yourself comfortable before he arrives. Doctor Arclight is a Grade A dumbass though, and you need to head home before you can meet him anywhere. 

>> Gonna be late. Need clothes.

>> You'll be perfectly on time.

You can't tell if that's a demand, or if he's trying to tell you that time is very much an illusionary construct. Either way, you hoof it back to your apartment, just a short enough walk from campus to give you time to mull over why the fuck Christopher suddenly wants to meet with you in public. He usually worries about a stray student or faculty member hiding among the masses. He does love the thrill of getting caught at school, though... Who knows what's swimming through that chaotic neutral brain of his.

You're fumbling for your keys, listening to early 2000s underground electronic rock, minding your own goddamned business and missing the heavy, quick footsteps that resound to your left. You miss all the cues, all the hints, any indication that anything out of the ordinary might be happening, because you're a fucking idiot who trusts people way too easily despite arguing otherwise. It isn't until a strong hand clasps your mouth shut, another arm wrapping firmly around your waist, that you even begin to realize that something's wrong. 

You scream. Your headphones are ripped out of your ears as you wildly thrash about in every possible direction, the pair of arms digging into your sides and neck. Your efforts are in vain, but it doesn't stop your brain from screaming 'hey idiot, you need to get away, like now.' You're trying to step on the assailants feet, trying to claw at their arms with the single hand you have free, and it's a moot fucking point, because they're already dragging you away despite your muffled pleas and cries. 

Somehow, between the excessive epinephrine and budding anxiety attack, you find the wherewithal to once again grab at the hand around your mouth. A smooth layer of varnish rests atop the abductor's long, almond-shaped nails, and if you take a deep breath through your nose, you can smell his signature lotion. Bergamot and amber have never been such a soothing combination.

Doctor fucking Arclight, coming in at six feet tall and 150 pounds soaking wet, manages to overpower you and drag you to his car with an ease that perfectly gets under your skin. Your shouts of protests turn into hurled insults that go unheard, flung directly into the abyss. You can't even bite at his hand because the degenerative fuckwad would just get off on the pain. Pair that with his weirdass hand kink and he'd have all the hormonal power in the world to pick you up and throw you wherever he wanted. 

“Who did you think was going to come running for you?” He taunts in a gloriously fucked up manner, because it's true. You know no one's gonna bat an eye if someone akin to the perfect background character gets picked up and tossed into the back of a car. 911 is two digits too many for anyone to press in your favor, and Christopher knows it. 

“Where the fuck was my warning, asshole?!” 

Christopher's already tying your wrists behind your back, the knot plenty tight as he pushes you up against the side of his car. An SUV you've never seen before. Cool. A blindfold follows, and before you can argue any further, Christopher undoes his tie and wraps it around your mouth, tying it behind your head. 

“The rest of your punishment for pulling that little stunt with your lab partner,” he growls against your neck.

A low double beep signals that you've officially become cargo, bound and gagged and unceremoniously shoved into the back of the car. You kick and flail and try to give him hell for trying to tie up your legs, but Christopher has the advantage of being a biological dude and gets to have a non-zero amount of muscle mass just for being born. Before you know it, the hatchback closes, the engine revs, and you're on the road. You're turned on, too. You can already feel how wet you are, thrashing around in the back against the rope and gag. Why are you like this, (Your Name)? How fucked are those synapses in your brain? 

By the grace of karma, Christopher doesn't get rear ended, even though he probably deserves it on an average day. You fully expect the back to open, but you hear the squeak of leather underneath his polished shoes, and his cologne wafts above your nose seconds later. Your sinuses are assaulted by orchids and musk as he kneels over you, roughly undoing your arms and legs.

“You're going to be on your best behavior.” His voice is gruff, assertive, authoritarian and very much Christopher Arclight. “You're going to follow me, and stay quiet. No mouthing off, no trying to run away.” Blindfold off, tie back around his neck, and oh, he looks deliciously sexy when he's pretending (pretending?) to be a piece of shit. “Do you understand?” 

You do. You nod like the good little girl you are, and once Christopher lets you out of the car, you're on your feet and dashing for the nearest exit. Joke's on you – Christopher's spindly legs are far longer than yours, and it takes all of three seconds for him to roughly grab your hair and yank you into submission. “You're in no position to play these little games.” Ow, okay, he's twisting your arm behind your back and it actually fucking hurts, so much so that you have to whimper in pain and agree to do what he says for fear of breaking your wrist. 

“I-I'm sorry, please, just let me go.” Tie me up again, actually. “I'm scared. Please just--” 

“Shut your fucking mouth and follow me. Now.” Yes, sir. 

Head down. Eyes to the floor. Shoulders slumped and hands in your pocket. The hotel tile is an eerie shade of pearlescent grey. Plenty of suits and fancy dresses chatter happily about company mergers in the lobby. The other couple in the elevator are clearly struggling with sexual tension since both of them are married to inattentive partners who don't believe in having sex after the age of 45. The bellhop upstairs asks you if you need anything. You hear the smile in Christopher's voice when he politely shoos the man away. God, this is fucked. You're getting wet in the middle of a five star hotel over the idea of getting raped by your professor. That's sick.

Doctor Arclight immediately pushes you inside. You stumble and try to catch yourself before falling into the open closet. Nerd-Boy Extraordinaire threads his fingers through your hair, giving rough yanks and tugs as he quite literally drags you over to the windows. Your body lays flush against floor-to-ceiling glass, far too large for curtains, cool against your skin as Christopher rips off your ancient torn jeans and hideous flannel top. It's dead quiet, sans your heavy breathing and the pitter-patter of your shirt buttons hitting the floor. You're actually running out of strength to fight him off. You don't want to, either. 

“Look outside,” he commands, grabbing your cheeks and forcing your gaze out the window. It's bleak. You can make out faces despite being nine floors up. You're fairly certain you've just made eye contact with a rough-looking dude on a bike from the 90's. “You're so intent on having the world know you're mine.” He's gotten better at unhooking your bra, all that practice paying off. Your breasts are squeezed against the cool glass, a blissful shudder coursing through your body. “I prefer to show, not tell.” 

He can't get you to lose the panties. He has all the upper body strength to toss you about like a ragdoll, but can't rip your underwear at the seams. You want to make a joke about him being weak in the presence of lace, but you've lost your voice to the promise of fulfilling one of your fucked up fantasies. Your heart's beating in your ears. People outside have definitely seen you on display. You're the mannequin from the Twilight Zone. A toy, an object, someone for Christopher to fuck at the drop of a hat. 

For someone who likes to edge himself into oblivion, Christopher wastes no time whipping out his cock and pressing his mostly-dressed body against your naked silhouette. He pulls the crotch of your panties to the side, and you can hear him force a breathy laugh despite a high-pitched, adrenaline-fueled whine ringing in your ears. 

“You're sick,” he states (fairly).

“Stop...” 

“Rendered speechless and weak,” he clicks his tongue in annoyance. He takes a rough breath; it's just the tip, but you're slick, warm, and why the fuck, he asks himself, are both of you so twisted that you find this scenario sexy? 

“Don't.” 

Christopher slips inside you despite your whispered pleas. It feels so fucking good to squirm against the window, little squeaks of skin-to-glass contact crying out into the vast quietness of the room. Your hips wriggle and writhe in an attempt to push him away, and despite how many times he slips out, he forces himself right back in. It's rough. It hurts, depending on the angle. Onlookers probably think you're actually getting raped. The people one room over can hear you, your begging getting loud, voice rasping for him to stop, stop, let me go, I don't want this, please! But you're not worth the time or the effort to be saved. He reminds you to open your eyes and watch as complete strangers make eye contact with you, some of them taking out their phones not to call authorities, but to take pictures and videos, because you're putting on a show. You're an actress. The star of a fucked up play that makes you feel so good and so bad all at once. You're the pitiful student of his intro class whose only purpose is to bring pleasure where there's none, and Christopher's the uptight professor who needs to get his dick wet to feel alive. 

Eventually, your cries turn to whispers, heavy breaths that fog up the window. You run out of steam, operating on fumes, unable to maneuver away from Christopher's cock as it slides in and out with a growing sense of urgency, a harsh thrust that hits you in all the right places. You didn't think it possible to have an orgasm where you're not touching your clit, but here you are, forcing Christopher out one last time with a gush of contractions that leave him appropriately disgusted despite the throaty moans being music to his ears.

“Imagine how disgusting you would feel,” he mumbles, “if it wasn't me.” 

Oh. Oh, fuck. Doctor Arclight has found a way to amplify dirty talk for you, if only for a split second. Would you still get off if it weren't him? You'd get wrapped up in the budding existential crisis if his cock didn't immediately get back to work, pounding against your g-spot with renewed vigor and a goal to achieve. He's right, you know – this shouldn't feel good. You find pleasure in pain, no matter the variety, and apparently you're into psychological torture. Who knew? (You did.)

“Tell me you like this.”

“No.” Your breasts start to warm up against the glass, nipples almost painfully hard with all the different stimuli you're being exposed to in this moment. You keep your eyes on the sidewalk below and realize that, yes, a couple of people have actually stopped to stare and only stare. You hope they recognize Doctor Arclight. You want him to go down with you. “I fucking hate this.” You fucking love this.

“Tell me,” Christopher wraps a free hand around your neck, beginning to press down on the sides of your throat with his fingertips, “you like this.” 

“Let go of me!” 

Christopher knows better. He's been with you long enough to know that this isn't an actual cry for help, that you use your safe words religiously (and exactly once, only because you couldn't feel your legs anymore). His angular, bony hips keep hitting yours without apology. “Tell me, (Your Name).” 

“I hate this and I hate you, let me fucking go!” You're starting to sound sincere. Yikes. “Get off of me you fucking creep!” Your strained shouts are met with deep laughter; fucker's really enjoying this, given the hurried tempo and hand around your throat and his quick breaths and...

Wait. Christopher's breathing erratically and sucking a breath through his teeth that comes out in a shaky pattern that you know to be his 'I'm just about to come' sound. Hold on. Hold the fucking phone. Are you gonna tell him to stop? He should. But you wanted this. You've wanted this since day one. You've so desperately wanted Christopher to come inside you, and here he is, letting out that telltale groan that says he's over the edge and far past the point of no return. You can feel his cock twitch ever so slightly, a rush of hot, sticky fluid filling you up in the shortest seconds of your life. Time travel really ought to be a thing, if only to experience this again and again. Christopher pulls out, his cum barely trapped by your panties that snap back into place. The rest slides down your thighs and onto the floor in slow, tantalizing drips, leaving trails of mistakes all over your legs. 

“You've finally made yourself useful,” he spits, running a teasing finger down the back of your neck, relishing in how your skin prickles to life with goosebumps. “Let's see if you can keep that momentum going, shall we?” 

You really thought you were done. Thought you were in the clear, that Christopher Arclight would let you run free after turning you into his personal cum dumpster. You ought to know by now that his lessons are never that forgiving, that he as a person doesn't have a tender bone in his body on an average day. The only time he seems to express any regret is if you cry, and even then, you've caught him trying to hide his ever-growing erection in response to your tears. Chemistry, physics, psychology, same difference. 

Doctor Arclight roughly yanks you by the arms and drags you over to the bed, unceremoniously shoving you onto the mattress with a firm warning to not move a muscle while he rummages through the bedside table. He's a man of lesson plans, organized regimens, because he's so uptight that he can't imagine not having his entire day planned down to the minute. It's the reason that stick can't be wedged out of his ass. Naturally, he has a plan for you, one that included packing piles of rope and various gags into an impossibly small drawer. If only his contract came with a detailed syllabus for you to read just as closely as the one for class. 

“How are you doing, princess?” Christopher pretends to ask with a caring inflection while he roughly captures your arms behind your back, tying them together with a not-too-tight column knot. He pushes you onto your stomach, roughly latching onto your panties and tossing them onto the pillows. 

“Peachy,” you grumble. “You'd better have--” 

“That's enough out of you.” 

“I'm trying to tell you--” I'm not on birth control and you decided today was the day for a creampie, you fucking moron; what happened to your strict diet, anyway?

“One more word, princess, and I'll take away that pretty voice of yours.” 

You fight against Christopher's grip, rolling onto your side as he binds your ankles together. Your best glare is also your weakest. Whenever you move, you feel the sticky remnants of Christopher against your crotch, messily smeared over your thighs. He takes a step back to admire you, your skin peppered with fingertip bruises and reddened marks. 

“Oh dear,” he sighs, ever dramatic, “is my precious little girl mad at me?” You nod. He shakes his head. “I'm afraid I don't know what to tell you, princess. Your actions have consequences. Daddy's made that fairly clear, has he not?” 

“That's--!” 

“Ah,” Christopher clicks his tongue. “I said no talking, Miss (Your Name).” 

Doctor Arclight loves a good loophole; holes in general, really, made obvious when he presents you with a ring gag, promptly shoved into your mouth without a second thought. No thought, really; Christopher's been acting on what looks like autopilot, a lustful haze fogging his vision and good sense (implying that he had any – you're being awfully forgiving, (Your Name)). Once you're effectively gagged and hogtied, Christopher steps back for more photos, his smile faker than your crumpled up faux leather jacket. He can hear you breathing heavily through the O ring, already drooling wildly and without restraint. 

“Very pretty,” he hums. “I suppose I should give you something to look forward to, hm?” Christopher sorts through the other drawer out of sight, his goals as much of a mystery as his research until a ribbed, thick dildo slides into you, swift and rough all at once. It vibrates without warning, Christopher immediately bumping it up to maximum everything, chuckling to himself when you start to moan and wiggle about. The metallic ring in your mouth keeps you salivating all over yourself, drops flying when the vibrator brushes against you without apology.

You jump when an alarm goes off – Christopher's phone, apparently, as he takes it out of his back pocket with a shit-eating grin. “Ah, that's right.” He saunters over to you, kneeling to bring his face to yours. “Sorry, princess,” he brushes your hair back, “but I have a faculty meeting I need to attend.” You try to speak through the gag, only to spit and drool. “Now, now, don't pout. I'll be right downstairs, having dinner with the rest of the department. And if I were you,” he slips a remote into your hand, “I'd behave.” He tilts his head to the side, pointing over his shoulder. This sadistic motherfucker set up a camera on the dresser. “I'll be checking in now and then, but if my little baby girl really needs to stop...” He taps your hand. “Just give that a push, alright?” Another whine. Drool covers your chin, pooling on the bed in front of you in a most embarrassing puddle. “I won't be long, princess. Professor Wyatt's very down-to-business. Give me an hour or so and--” 

“What?!” Saliva pours from your lips, spittle hitting Christopher's face, which he probably deserves. 

Christopher slaps you across the face. Imagine if you'd done that to him – he'd throw a massive fit, shouting about how his face is one of his only redeeming features. He's right, of course, but he still wouldn't allow it to happen. Your face, though, blends into crowds and offers nothing in the way of making your life any easier, so it's okay. You signed up for this, anyway. Chris leaves with a reminder to not let your insubordinate behavior happen again. The door clicks shut, and you're alone. Covered in drool, Christopher's cum dry on your legs, cracking with each writhing twitch as the vibrator against your g-spot works endlessly against you. You catch the lens of the camera in the corner of your eye, and you wish you were blindfolded. 

The downside to ring gags? No muffling of noises. That vibrator starts to feel insanely good insanely quickly, and all you can think to do is bury your face in the mattress, in your own lake of drool, just so the neighbors don't hear your breathing and moaning as you come. And boy, do you come, and unfortunately for you, you're incredibly sensitive afterward. High pitched whines and groans and 'oh god's bounce against the mattress. No matter how you move, how you kick and scream and cry, you can't dislodge the dildo, thick and unwavering. So it keeps happening. Orgasm, overstimulation, wash, rinse, repeat. The mattress is a biohazard. You feel sorry for whoever has to clean these sheets. You almost push the button, the sensations so strong that you're nearly crying, but you love this. You love being reduced to a little toy for your professor, because it's the closest thing you have to a purpose. At an unknown point in the hour, you do cry, another orgasm ripping tortuously through your body. 

Someone knocks at the door. You don't know how long it's been. The concept of time rattles in your brain, mixed with Christopher's words about time being relative, or an illusion, or some other Einstein bullshit he's probably had memorized since elementary school. The lock whines, the door opens, and in waltzes Doctor Arclight, all smiles. You can't fucking wait to ruin this man in your next scene.

“I'm back,” he grins. 

He wants you to greet him, as per usual. “Welcome back, Daddy.” The moist spot under your mouth trails down to your chest. There's saliva all over your chin and cheeks, your neck, everything it could reach, and it's cold. You look up at Christopher with wide, pleading eyes. Let me go, Daddy. I'm sorry. I'll be on my best behavior from now on. Until I figure out how to get you back for all this shit. 

“Such a good girl,” he compliments. “Did you make a mess, hm?” You want to glare and scream, but you nod. “That's okay. I've come to expect it with you.” He ruffles your hair, a well-manicured nail tapping at the still-vibrating cock in your pussy. “Do you want me to take this out now, princess?” Another nod; he complies, and revels in the loud sigh of relief you heave through the gag. He undoes the knots around your wrists and ankles, helping you sit up and out of your mess. “How many times, Miss (Your Name)?” He taps your pussy in question. Between rubbing at your ropeburned wrists, you hold up seven shy fingers. “One every nine minutes. You never cease to impress.” Fuck him and his freakish mental math skills. 

“If you don't get me water and feed me in the next five minutes,” you're finally able to talk, the gag dangling from Christopher's fingers, “I'm taking that video feed and ruining your fucking career with it.” 

The drop over the edge is intense. Christopher catches you, barely, still in his own daze of 'wow, I just fake raped and abandoned my student, and it was really fucking hot.' He knows something's wrong. You're shaking. You're actually crying. Quietly, barely, but the tears are there. Fucking adrenaline, man! That shit'll fuck you up like no one's business. Oxytocin isn't enough of an antidote this time. Plan B might help your cause, though.

If the null hypothesis is true, Christopher wouldn't feel like a certified asshole in this moment. He does, though, and he doesn't know how to show it. He's the solution to his own problem, but he can't even solve his own problems, because his research is strictly about atoms and light and gravity and yeah, the gravity of this situation is pretty intense, but he doesn't know how to study this exact issue. He does know one thing: you're hot when you cry.

“What's wrong?” He pulls you into a loose hug. What's wrong? Everything. Nothing about this is right. He knows it, you know it; what a stupid question. 

“Sub-drop,” you reply weakly. “It was hot as hell, just...” You smack his chest for emphasis, sniffling and pawing at your face. You try so hard to run from the truth, but Christopher's two for two on pulling it from your gritted teeth. 

“I see,” he whispers, doing the only thing he can think to do and tightening his arms in a way that says 'I'm doing this to show you I'm sorry and not because I want to trap you here again.' “I may have gotten a bit... swept up in the moment.” 

“You did.”

Oh, he's not used to sobbing. He can handle your slow tears after rough scenes and sessions, but that's your voice coming through, and you sound pitiful. Broken. He broke you. If the null hypothesis is true, he wouldn't feel guilty, but he does. Guilty, and horny, but mostly guilty, he thinks.

“You're alright.” This geek who's never stepped foot into a gym can pick you up bridal style, believe it or not. He moves you to the only dry portion of the bed, lays you down on top of the plush duvet, and mimics the way you play with his hair after you fuck him up for hours at a time. “I know I ah...” His hand twists in the air, fishing for the right words and coming up empty. “Quite literally hurt you at times, but I... It's never my intention to, ehm... Do this.” 

You have the capacity to huff through the tears, a small smile despite the fact that you don't entirely believe him. “Nice apology.” 

“I truly do regret the outcome.” 

Bullshit.

“Your cum is literally leaking onto the comforter. Out of me. Still.” 

“I'll clean you up,” he promises, trying to wipe away any excess tears, your slit still crying and forcing out his mistakes. “I did plan for this...” 

“You seriously bought Plan B in preparation for pretending to rape me?” Pretending. Pretending? Pretending. “You know that shit puts the body through hell, right?” 

Christopher's prayers for the null hypothesis to be true go unanswered for now. The answer bubbling in his throat and against his tight lips will only make this situation worse, but he holds out hope that it's enough to appease you, make you forgive him after a few days. It's a horrible decision, a promise he might not be able to keep, and this wouldn't be an issue if he didn't find himself somehow deeply connected to your fucked up, miserable little spirit. 

“My last partner was rather... open, about his distaste for my behavior now and then.”

“That is seriously a sick way of making me forgive you.” 

“You can turn me down.” 

“I just might.” 

Christopher leans in to take off your choker, the only other article of clothing he left on, and turns the pendant around for you to see. 'Miss (Your Name)' stares back at you, engraved into the silver. A literal collar, one made for you and only you, because... He cares? 

“You seriously suck at feelings.”

“I thought my jealousy would speak to my feelings.” 

“Hard to know when you're naturally a possessive piece of shit.” 

Christopher is insanely possessive. He's controlling. He can't find it within himself to relinquish dominance outside of the bedroom, and even still, he's only done that with you. Not Kaito. He still can't figure out why. Test after test, no conclusive results, no alpha-levels at a .05 or less. For now, he's not going to worry about it. He puts all of his effort in cleaning you up, wrapping you in warm blankets and literally feeding you dinner, praising you for all the good you do in and out of bed. He showers with you, gently this time, and willingly cuddles with you while watching reruns of Community and trying to laugh at jokes that aren't funny to him.

You're warm with conflicting emotions. Christopher sucks. Christopher's snuggled up with you and pressing kisses to wherever he can reach. You kiss him back, your lips newly balmed and begging for affection, and he gives in. Your boyfriend really is the actual fucking worst, isn't he? Wait... Boyfriend. His last partner gave him a lot of shit? That doesn't line up with his earlier stories. Christopher Arclight, Doctor Feelgood, has made a mistake.

“Give me your phone.” 

Christopher has no issue passing you his cell, proud to admit that he's a rich open book. You know the dean's last name. You know Christopher's a stickler for organization. T. Tenjo. Kaito Tenjo. Last text sent... Two months ago. Something about updating software. Fucking nerds. You shift out of Christopher's direct line of vision and pretend to shop for a new wardrobe while memorizing Kaito's number for your own use. Once Christopher falls asleep, you get to work. 

>>Hey. You're Christopher Arclight's ex, yeah? 

>>Who is this? 

>>His not-girlfriend, quasi-girlfriend fuckbuddy thing. Whatever he calls it. 

>>My condolences. 

>>Also one of his students. 

>>Glad to see he's still making bad decisions.

>>Very. I'm looking to fuck up his life and need your help. 

He doesn't say no. You have an ally, (Your Name). Have fun with the next scene.


	5. Paired Samples T-Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've recruited Kaito for help with this next scene. Unlike Christopher, you've checked in re: boundaries.

Usually you can sleep off shitty moods and wake up the next day feeling slightly less bad, but it's been an entire day and you still feel like guzzling Christopher's cum would leave a better taste in your mouth than the one you have now. Fortunately for Chris, the only thing he tastes is black coffee and a dry piece of rye toast, a true testament of his personality. All of his characteristics and traits have since been confirmed via text messages with one Kaito Tenjo, and the longer you think about it, the more impatient you become. Maybe it's the terrible sound of someone chewing, maybe it's the lack of sleep, but before Chris can finish eating, you snap. Your hands connect with the table, doing your best impression of Professor Arclight, but rather than jump, he simply looks at you with an upturned brow. 

“Something the matter?” 

“On your feet,” you command, clipped and precise. He doesn't move. “Now, Christopher.” 

“I'm still waking up.” 

“Aw, you're right,” you sigh treacly, as if having completely done a 180 that Christopher doesn't deserve. You walk around his needlessly large kitchen table, your own planning finally paying off. You know Christopher always sits in the chair furthest from the window, always walks around the same half of the table every single morning, because he can't brake routine to save his life. He never walks past the chair next to him, never looks twice, and is too tired to notice your hand dipping to the cushion and pulling out the collar you had commissioned for him (with his money, of course; he'll thank himself later). 

“So sorry to disturb your morning routine, sleepyhead,” you press a kiss to the back of his head, hair still smelling like lilacs and vanilla, and latch the choker behind his neck. You hear a slight gasp when the leather caresses his skin, head jolting ever so slightly. “Finish your breakfast first, alright?” You nudge his plate closer, sunny-side eggs wiggling up at him (unpeppered, because he's way too fucking white for his own good). Christopher's a painfully slow eater, and you don't have any patience for him anymore. That all went out the vast hotel windows the second he left you writhing on that bed. “I said, finish your fucking breakfast!” You grab him by the back of his head and jerk him forward, straight into his plate of food. 

Christopher feels egg yolks spatter against his cheeks, into his eyelashes and onto his chin. He gears up to yell at you, but the fingers tightening against his head tell him to shut up and listen. This would turn him off of eggs entirely if it didn't also somehow turn him on. You won't let him up. Christopher resorts to pathetically licking at his plate, running his front teeth against egg whites and awkwardly biting at what's left of his breakfast. Being reduced to eating like the dog he is... Karma in action.

“That's enough.” You hook the previously-hidden leash through the hoop at the front of his choker, giving it a rough yank in a silent command for him to follow you upstairs. He stumbles out of his chair with a grunt, a complaint dancing on his lips. You're at the steps, ready to take two at a time because it's the only way to ever keep up with Christopher's spindly legs, but you're in control. Complete and total control. Blissful, really. “On your knees.” 

“I'm sorry?” 

“You're gonna crawl up the stairs like the good little pet you are.” 

Christopher's awake now, alive and annoyed, and undeniably aroused. It stings, getting onto his knees at your feet, and following you on all fours is astonishingly hot. You're inclined to agree – he's small, microscopic in the grand scheme of the universe and in your eyes. He's ready to stand when you hit the last step, but with another harsh tug, he continues to crawl back to the bedroom. Reduced to playing the part of your pet, your dog, your little boytoy. He'll never tell you he loves it, and doesn't want to admit that you likely already know. 

“What a good boy,” you praise, scratching at the top of his head after helping him onto the bed. The vanity mirror's permanently facing the mattress, further proof of Christopher's voyeuristic tendencies. You wonder how many times he's sneakily watched you get off in the mornings. Plenty, most likely. “Tell me how much you like your new necklace.” You gesture to his reflection, a finger hooked underneath the choker. Imagine being wealthy enough to not even blink at a nine hundred dollar leather choker with literal fucking diamonds embedded throughout the band. The rings are platinum. The leash is a whole 'nother story. You'll forward the receipts to him later.

“It's... very pretty, Domina, thank you. You have excellent taste.”

“Prettier than your face, huh?” You click your tongue in irritation, scowling at the remnants of egg all over his unmade chin and cheeks. “Messy boy. Did you forget how to eat?” 

Before Chris can offer an explanation – one where he certainly doesn't blame the fact that you smashed his face against his plate, because he imagined it, the silly boy – the doorbell chimes proudly throughout the house. He must never get visitors, given his knitted brows and mumbled 'what' under his breath. Maybe that's in response to your wide grin, the one that says you know something that he doesn't. He'd be right. 

“I'll get it,” you sing. “You should work on making yourself look...” Your hands flail wildly in front of his body. “Better.” 

“Ah, Miss-- ehm, Domina. Who are you--?” 

“Either sit down and make yourself presentable, or we'll re-enact what happened downstairs with your makeup. Your choice, Christopher.” 

He loves the way you threateningly spit his name, as if the syllables themselves are enough to leave a disgusting, bitter taste in your mouth. They are – it's Christopher Arclight, after all. Nerdboy extraordinaire, Geeklord of the Physics Department, the sleaziest professor at your cursed university, the hex brought on by his presence alone. You're running through mental images of cryptid Christopher when you answer the door, only to be met with the world's most monotone greeting.

“You're not at all what I expected.” 

Kaito Tenjo, age 25, barely any taller than you with a severe case of resting bitch face, hovers idly at the front door of his worst nightmare. You thought you were the top bitch in hating Christopher Arclight, but Kaito's got you beat. Never have you seen so many dry, blunt insults in one string of texts. Pure poetry, a piece that you might rope him into publishing; the American Literary Review could only be so lucky. 

“What, you don't think The Good Doctor is the type to go for someone so plain and boring?” 

“He's very particular.” 

“Well, I can't exactly pin what he saw in you either, so we're on the same page.” Honestly. This guy goes through so much hair gel and spray that he's single-handedly responsible for his own giant hole in the o-zone layer. “All my shit's in the guest room diagonal from his bedroom.” 

“How'd you manage to sneak all this past him?” 

“Christopher knows better than to go into my room.” 

“Your room?” Kaito repeats, partially in disbelief, partially to ask who the fuck you are and where you came from (Physics 101, Monday Wednesday Friday, 1pm. Keep up, Kaito). He snorts, shaking his head as you part ways. “You have him wrapped around your finger.” 

You split up, Kaito hiding away in your bedroom, you throwing the master bedroom doors open with a flourish. Christopher knows the drill: sit down, back straight, hands in his lap, forcing his biggest, widest smile upon your return. 

“Who was that, Domina?” He asks through a grin, eyebrows twitching with the threat of making you suffer later if it's anyone he has any respect for. 

“One of those door-to-door Mormons,” you shrug casually, digging out the rope from underneath the bed. “Something about sensing mass amounts of sin from here. You know how they are.” 

“Domina,” Christopher chuckles in a threat. “Who was it?” 

“Strip down,” you order. “Arms behind your back, sit cross-legged, and ask permission before you talk to me again.” 

Christopher's smile says he's going to listen, but the narrowing eyes and slight grinding of his teeth says he doesn't trust a damn thing you're saying, and is likely debating how to kill you in your sleep. A bad idea, considering you're the only reason he's getting his getting his dick wet. He needs you, for better or worse. You live to annoy another day. Box tie, column tie, loop around the neck, ignore Christopher's groans of protest, and boom: Naked Christopher in a cross-legged shrimp tie. Even when he's all done up in knots and binds, he's beautiful. Status quo achieved.

“Permission to speak?” 

You sigh. “What now?” 

Christopher can barely crane his neck up to look you in the eye, but ever the dutiful submissive, he tries. “It burns.” 

“Your arms or your legs?” 

“Everything.” 

“Then I did it right.” 

“Who--”

“Who was at the door?” You glower. You grab Christopher by his braided hair, tugging his face closer to his crotch. “Do you really wanna know who was at the fucking door?” He nods, quick and short, still gazing up at you through his stupidly pastel-dyed bangs. “The one person you wouldn't mind having a threesome with, if I remember our conversation correctly.” 

A knock on the open door. You smirk. Christopher jumps. Kaito enters. 

“Feel free to tell me if I'm wrong, but I know I'm not.” You loosen the knot around his neck just enough for him to raise his head, and when he does, he pales behind his layer of foundation. No amount of full-coverage concealer will cover up his shock. “Your manners, Christopher.” 

“I... Kaito?” 

Kaito raises a brow, crosses his arms, and maintains his perfectly bored expression. “That's me.” 

“How do you two know each other?” Christopher's face cycles between disgust, horror, and rage faster than the speed of light. You, however, move closer to the speed of sound, hitting a bit of a road bump because you didn't plan on him being such a pain slut so soon. He grunts against the crack of the crop, a welt already dotting his skin next to the beauty mark underneath his right shoulder. He hisses out a low 'fuck,' earning another slap.

“The same rules still apply in the presence of a guest, Christopher.” He bows his head in a nodded apology. He's taking the news well. You sit behind Christopher, readjusting the collar he appropriately left on, carefully taking out his dangling earrings; the temptation to rip them out when you're topping is far too great. “Kaito's here because I invited him.” Chris opens his mouth to speak; you cover his glossed lips with a single finger. “We had a lovely conversation about you and your penchant for shameless exhibitionism, so here we are. Oh,” you shake your head, “and we bonded over how much we can't fucking stand you. Forgot about that.” 

Kaito quirks an unimpressed brow, eyes dancing between you and Christopher, unfamiliar with the chemistry here; Coulomb's Law in action. A positive and a negative, unlike the two negative charges Kaito's used to seeing. It's interesting, strange; he does heave a soft snort when you nearly push Chris over with a single finger until he finally figures out to take it into his mouth. 

“Enlighten him?” You ask Kaito, shoving a third finger into Christopher's mouth. Christopher painted your nails a chic, glossy black last night. Simple, but effective; your personal monostitch. He takes great care to run his tongue over each nail, because he can't help but symbolically suck himself off whenever given the chance. In this instance, you don't mind, arousal spiking the harder he sucks. Damn him and his operant conditioning. 

“(Your Name) got a hold of me to ask if you've always been an ass. We talked. Found a lot we agree on.” Kaito rolls his eyes, catching Christopher's glance and debating tattling on him; he likes it when you whip Chris, if he's being perfectly honest. “Do you get off on lying to her about our relationship?” 

“Did you lie to me, little pet?” Christopher's long hair makes for an excellent leash when the other's too extra for the situation. “Stop being a little bitch and answer me.” 

“I stretched the truth,” Christopher breathes, shaky in an unspoken plea to let go of his hair. You outta know how much effort he puts into its care, all the masks and conditioners and brushes. Silky tresses reduced to reins. “I'd never lie to you, Domina.” 

“A lie for another lie. So fucking sad.” You spit on his face before addressing Kaito again. He wears tight-ass pants that do nothing to hide just how much he's living for this display of humiliation. “Lemme make sure I remember what happened,” you sigh in exaggeration, damp hand petting at Christopher's head to wipe of his spit. All he can do is look up at Kaito from behind his bangs, barely able to make out any features beyond his ex's permanent scowl and crossed arms. “This guy,” you give Christopher's braid a sharp tug, jerking his entire body against your side before you roughly push him away, “basically fucked you over in more ways than one, and you're still pissed about it.” 

“Essentially, yes.” 

Christopher swallows, wanting to look up and argue that this is a non-issue, that Kaito should be over the past already, that he should understand why he did the things he did, but he can't. It's a futile effort; you have him in a beautifully tight shrimp tie, arms behind his back, legs criss-crossed and tied together, the rope over his neck attached to the column tie at his ankles. It's burns, and he hopes the heat in his face has everything to do with his physical position, and not the emotional one. 

You loosen the knot around his neck, gripping his chin and forcing him to look his ex-student/boyfriend/whatever the fuck else in the eye. The ties already pepper his body with rope burns and stress marks, his pale skin glowing with a beautiful crimson agony. It's a glorious picture, Christopher sitting on his own bed, naked and grossly turned on (and ever so slightly afraid). You see it in the way his chest bobs with shallow breaths, the blush across his cheeks, the parting lips that beg for any kind of touch or release. Adrenaline's a hell of drug. 

“You lied to me,” your grip on his chin and throat tighten, and he gasps. “For the better part of a month.”

“I didn't—” 

“Did I fucking say you could talk?” You seethe in annoyance, jerking his face towards yours as if to demand attention and respect. “Be a good boy and speak only when you're spoken to. Am I clear?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes?” You growl with the expectation that he follows the rules, turning him back to face Kaito for dramatic effect. “Tell him who you're talking to. I'm running out of patience.” 

It's one thing to use your titles in the privacy of his bedroom, and another to... well, he's still in his bedroom, but Kaito's here, and fuck, this shouldn't be so hot. “My apologies... Domina.” Kaito smirks, and all the blood in Christopher's body rushes to his dick, very much against his will. He's strong, self-assured, poised; not a slut for humiliation, weak and needing to be kicked around. You're fucking up his reputation, and he loves it, the sick fuck.

“Tell him who you are,” you command.

“I'm...” 

Kaito's still smirking, leaning against the wall of Christopher's bedroom, ironically in the same spot where Chris once had their (only) photo hanging against a dreary white background. He knows a bit of what to expect, and is pleasantly surprised to see how well you're already delivering on your promise to embarrass the fuck out of Christopher Arclight. This, Kaito thinks, may actually start to make up for all the emotional neglect and self-absorption he had to deal with over the years. Maybe. It's a tall order. He raises his brows in a silent taunt, demanding that Christopher follow your orders. 

“I'm... Miss (Your Name)'s...” He clears his throat. He can feel both of your gazes on his bound, naked body, and fuck, he's hard. “I'm her pet,” he blurts uncharacteristically. “Domina's obedient little playtoy.” Fuck, he needs to dunk his head into a sink of ice water. Just plunge him into the Arctic waters and leave him there, regardless of the shitty memories he associates with the north pole. 

“Good boy,” you coo, a hand on his cheek. “And today,” you lean down to his ear, briefly glancing between him and Kaito, “you're going to answer to two owners.” 

Christopher's breath catches in his throat. Kaito beams in sadistic amusement, a short teasing hum vibrating in his throat. Chris only expected Kaito to watch you beat the shit out of him, physically and verbally fucking him up beyond recognition. To hear Kaito's going to have a hand in his fall from grace leaves him appropriately speechless, and astonishingly turned on. 

“How does that sound, hm? You wanna be pushed around by me and the guy you never quite got over?” 

“Ye-Yes, Miss, please. I'd like that.” 

You turn to Kaito, dropping the overly-sweet smile in favor of a smirk that says you're ready to ruin your professor's life. “What should I do while you set up?” 

“He likes being choked,” Kaito answers, tinkering with a camera Chris can't quite see in his currently knotted up position. “Never did it myself – probably would've killed him.” 

“I'm gonna pop into the closet,” you sing with a wink. “Do not,” you drop your tone, “speak to Kaito unless he tells you to.” You take the little bell off of his choker, removing the piece entirely. “If you need to stop,” you murmur under your breath, putting the bell into his palm; he nods in understanding, as well as he can with the rope still keeping him still. 

You shuffle through the walk-in closet, sorting through pieces of lingerie and learning that you can hear what's going on in the other room if you're close enough to the wall. Maybe that's why Christopher takes a while when he goes to pick out your outfits or underwear – he can hear you moaning and whining when he leaves you, and he probably gets off to it. Which is fair – you'd do the same. You've found the piece you're looking for, but hang back to relish in Christopher's downfall. 

“I thought I'd like seeing you in this position, but this is better than just imagining it.” Kaito continues to fumble with the camera set-up, making sure Christopher's perfectly in-frame for his audience. “It's about time someone knocked you down a peg. You're insufferable on an average day.” More quiet shuffling. “Do you like it when she does this? … That was a question, dumbass.” 

“Yes...” God, he sounds pathetic, his deep voice going soft and weak. 

“You're fucking weird.” Kaito finishes setting up the recording equipment right as you return. “It's done. Want it on?” 

“Sure do.” You brandish the corset-style choker he wore a couple of nights ago. It should be simple to lace it around his neck, but the second you loosen the rope keeping his neck bent, he shies away from your hands. Strange – Chris usually isn't such a brat. “Hold still, Christopher.” You finally manage to loop the choker around the front of his neck. “I said,” you tighten the laces immediately, “hold still.” Chris's eyes bulge in response to his throat being crushed at the sides. A strangled gasp and long, unstable breath follow after. “Nice thing about corsets – easy to tighten up and prettier than a belt.” You give him a fleeting kiss on his burning cheek and point at the camera, Kaito still watching from the side. “Try to smile; you have an audience.” 

“I—agh!” Christopher coughs and ducks his head. “I-I don't know who's...” His voice sounds especially raspy as you tighten the laces around his neck. 

“I mean,” you shrug, “it could be no one. I don't know that he's actually watching.” 

“You remember Mizael,” Kaito says. “Long blond hair, blue eyes – much prettier than yours.” He shrugs. “We slept together the same day I broke it off with you. Guess it slipped my mind, or something.” Oof, Kaito's going in on this guy. “I can turn it off, but it'll take some convincing.”

Chris shakes his head, ignoring the awkward little hop skip and jump his heart does in his chest. It's probably the lack of oxygen; he wants it to be, anyway, but it doesn't get much better even when you let up on the choker. “Leave it--!” Chris lets out a sad, tiny squeak, lungs rapidly expanding, erection ever present as you choke him again.

Kaito finally abandons his spot next to the camera, dangling his phone screen in front of Chris's face as he catches his breath again. The text on the screen would have been enough to have him gasping for air. It's Mizael.

>> Make him cry.

A challenge, most definitely. Christopher didn't cry when he accidentally bit into a Thai chili pepper, and he has the heat tolerance of a white suburban middle-aged mother. When he stubs his toe or nicks his fingers, he curses, not a tear in sight. You get the easiest questions wrong during Jeopardy reruns on purpose to piss him off, and your lack of basic knowledge on 18 th century composers and precious minerals hasn't made him cry out of frustration (yet). Getting Christopher to cry... You'll need Kaito for that, most likely. 

“How are you doing, Doctor?” You trail a firm hand down his stomach, contoured by the bondage, fingers stopping just above the tip of his cock. The sheer amount of heat radiating from his crotch astounds you, and oh, what a fucking beautiful, glorious gasp he rewards you with when you grab him. He came a couple of days ago, draped your face in a bath of pearls and filled you with his shame, and even now he's a stickler for his self-imposed schedule. 

“St-Stop, please.” 

“I haven't even moved my fucking hand.” 

“I don't, I don't want it.” 

“You gonna cry if I make you come?” He shakes his head, ducking further from your gaze. “What if Kaito makes you come, hm?” 

You're not the one undoing the tie on his braided hair. Those aren't your hands. That's not your perfume. That's Kaito, tearing off the elastic around his hair and shaking it out with a harsh shuffle of his fingers. Chris gasps through his gritted teeth. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Kaito mocks, smoothing out his ex's now-wavy hair. “You used to love it when I'd get on my knees and suck you off. You made me swallow even though your cum tastes like shit. What'd you do for me?” 

The king of mixed messages on the receiving end. Kaito pets his hair while recollecting on the past, wherein Chris, apparently, rarely returned sexual favors. Kaito was beneath him, all the time, every time. Now, Kaito makes him feel small, bad, weak. You, however, loosen the ropes around his neck and legs and kiss the spots where the knots dug into his skin. Your hot lips are somehow cool against his burning skin. 

“Remember when you forced me to stay after-hours in the lab for your dissertation, all because you were too fucking stupid to figure it out on your own?” (Chris winces – he didn't credit Kaito as an author on that paper.) 

“Just last week you made me stay after the lab period to reorganize your nerdy laser stuff. You're so fucking lazy, Doctor Arclight.” 

“Does he still walk around the house in those obnoxiously loud heels thinking he's hot shit?” 

“The black boots and the white heels, yeah. Gotta be the tallest, baddest bitch and demand everyone's attention, huh?” You turn Christopher's face towards yours, ropes falling from his neck and shoulders. “So, Christopher,” you grin, having waited days to say this to him, “you have my attention. What can I do for you?” 

That hits him, knocks the wind out of him without the need for any crops or flogs or canes. He struggles to formulate the perfect sentence, all the wants and desires in his head jumbled into a garbled mess. Kaito continues to rake a lazy hand through his needlessly long hair, and you've taken to nibbling and biting at the marks glittering against his pale skin. “Whatever will make you happy, Miss.” 

Happy, huh? You gesture with your head for Kaito to get up and grab his prep work from your guest/girlfriend/whatever bedroom while you reposition Christopher for his next episode of punishment. “I'm gonna give you a break, since you're been such a good, precious little pet.” You point to the camera lens. “Eyes on the camera.” 'Happy.' Christopher doesn't strike you as the 'happy' type. He smiles after sex and in response to boring puns and Dad jokes. Getting him to laugh usually takes a 25 minute sitcom rerun and at least two glasses of red wine that cost more than a pint of your blood. Or, you know, your fingertips against his feet. 

You hold up the corset for him to see, another piece you had made for him. “I know how much you like darker tones, but as you've told me so many times, I'm not very fashion-forward.” You could've opted for an underbust cut, but a flat overbust felt prettier. Silver metal clasps line the front, long trails of black and blue ribbon at the back, navy lace over a leather front... “What do you think?” 

“It's beautiful, Domina. Is...” He clears his throat as gently as possible, gaze flitting between you and the camera. “Is that for me?” You nod, slowly, because it should be painfully obvious. “It's far too lovely for me. I don't deserve anything that nice.” 

“You certainly don't,” Kaito grumbles upon his return, setting a few instruments down on the short-standing bookshelf adjacent to the door. 

You instruct Chris to breathe out, repeatedly, stopping when he's uncomfortable enough for you to tightly lace up the corset, knotting it after he wheezes a weak grunt in complaint. You want him to stare that camera down just like you had to watch strangers look up and watch you get fucked against that hotel window. “Do you keep your hair so long so I can use it to tie you up?” 

Christopher's lungs burn, aching and begging for more air. His hair melds with the ropes, tied into the knots at this ankles; wiggling suddenly becomes especially dangerous and painful. Everyone in the room knows he loves his hair, and he'll do anything to keep it in pristine condition. Which is why he has no choice but to lie there and endure the tortuous sensations of your nails grazing at the soles of his feet, arms bound to his back and unable to wave you away. Kaito takes the left, and you take the right. You like being right.

Laughing sucks out what little air he can take it, and fuck, it makes his lungs burn. It hurts his throat and his pride every time he gasps for oxygen, chest pushing against the corset in vain. He's above begging, tells himself 'you're above this, you're better than this,' but neither you nor Kaito are stopping, and each time he jerks his head or his legs, he pulls his own hair. It hurts. It's torture. “Okay, okay! That's enough!” You knew his voice could go fairly high in pitch, as evidenced by his girly sneezes, but damn, that's  _ high _ . A little wheezy and raspy too. “Please!” 

“Not 'til you cry.”

Christopher hisses in pain between strangled laughs, because you're an admittedly clever girl who found a way to use one of his favorite features to his disadvantage. He can't breathe, he keeps laughing, and once those eyeliner-laden tears start to fall from the corners of his eyes, you finally stop. Kaito takes pictures for you, and fuck, those tears do things to you that make you feel guilty and somehow even more turned on. 

“You should be thanking me for such a fun time,” you muse, finally undoing the laces on his corset and allowing him a moment to breathe. 

“Thank you,” Chris sputters through heavy breaths. “You're incredibly thoughtful.” 

“Funny that you'll thank her but not me.” Kaito rolls his eyes, kneeling in front of Chris while mindfully staying out of frame. Such a kind partner, making sure his boyfriend can still watch. “Kinda burns, really.” 

Credit where credit is due – Kaito's got the signals down. The wax warmer's been on long enough, leaving you with a jar of melted white paraffin calling Christopher's name. You fetch the wax while Kaito continues to talk down to Chris, and he's... well, he's getting personal. 

“Is that why you never laugh? Because it gets you hot and bothered?” Kaito taunts, all while lovingly (?) massaging Chris's tortured feet. “You were good at hiding things from me. I'm sure you knew how to hide an erection too, if it was really that embarrassing.” 

“He doesn't seem to really have any shame though,” you shrug. 

“No, he doesn't,” Kaito glares at the back of Christopher's head. “No shame when he skipped out on dates, ignored half of my texts... All because he thought he was too good for anyone other than himself.” 

“Burned you pretty bad, huh?” 

“Mizael takes his time with me, though,” Kaito pulls over a chair and sits at Christopher's side, lovingly (?) cupping his ex-partner's cheek. “Goes out of his way to set up cute little dates for us. Afternoons at the cafe, nights at the planetarium, going out of his way to set up a picnic for just the two of us... Lets me fuck him, too. Unlike you. What's your excuse?” 

“That's far from the truth-- fuck me!” Christopher grits his teeth and pulls in a long, steadying breath following his ironic curse. A Freudian slip, perhaps. The more Kaito talks, the more Chris can confirm that there's not a chance the null hypothesis is true. Not with the way his heart aches in his chest in the worst possible way. Not with the way his eyes start to sting on and off despite the lack of tickle torture. The wax thinly lining his back stings. “That hurts, Domina!” It all hurts.

You busy yourself with carefully filling in the impressions the corset left along his back, each line and mark a pulsating bright red against his ghost-like skin. “But you looked so pretty in that corset,” you whine with a smirk. “I'm just drawing a fake one in its place. You should be grateful,” you scold. “You can breathe in this one.” The warm wax sears Christopher's back, leaving trails of white that carry a purity he doesn't deserve. 

“Th-Thank you, Domina, but it-- ah!” Another long groan through his teeth follows after you tip the jar over his ass, the sensitive skin not at all prepared for the mild burns. You go slowly, leaving small drips here and there, paying homage to his love of the stars by peppering him in constellations. 

“Who do you belong to, Chris?” It's Kaito asking, and fuck, that burns and stings more than the hot wax. 

“(Your Name).” Your name's a whisper from his lips and a scream against his back; you spell your name out across his skin using the remaining wax, effectively branding him.

“You're such a good boy when you want to be,” you purr above his ear. “I think you've been through enough for now, don't you?” He nods on command, and you can't help but laugh as he forgets his hair's still tied up in his binds. “I personally wanna see just how much dick you can handle having in your ass.” You spank him once, twice, bits of wax flying from his skin with each hit. Kaito holds up two separate vials of lube in silent question. “Warming or tingling, Chrissy?” 

Kaito ducks his head in a quiet laugh in response to the blush soaring across Christopher's face. Rarely do you get the chance to shove anything into Chris, and when you do, you resort to calling him demeaning names; Chrissy Prissy's your favorite, but you dial it back for his sake. You're getting soft, (Your Name). 

“Don't call me that.” 

You slap him right across the face. He gasps, glares, and eventually falls back into line after you fish through your bedside drawer and reveal a larger-than-average pocket knife. “When I ask you a question, you fucking answer me. No arguing, no complaining, no refusing.”

“I understand,” he nods once again, because he's a dumbass who seems to forget you permanently have him by his hair. The grimace acts as yet another perfect cue. 

“Aw, is little Chrissy having a hard time with his hair?” You utter teasingly. You flip the knife open, light bouncing off the blade. It bothers you how easily the concept of photons come to mind. “I can help with that.” 

“No, no, no!” His voice darkens, deepens in pitch and anger levels. “You are  _ not  _ going to cut my hair.” 

“Don't tell me what to do.” You rest the tip of the blade against his shoulder, ever so slightly turning it back and forth. Christopher shudders and bites back a gasp. “If you have a problem, you beg me to reconsider.” 

“Please, (Your Name), don't cut my hair.” Keep it up, (Your Name). You might make him cry. Your humming in thought tells him to keep going. “It's... It's one of my best features. I like being pretty, you know that. I won't be pretty with short hair. Don't you like me when I'm beautiful? You-You can show me off, play with it, do whatever you want, just don't cut it.” 

“How else do you want her to get it out of those knots?” Kaito taunts. “The number of times I had to listen to you complain about the upkeep... It's best to just cut it all off.”

“Please don't listen to him, (Your Name), I'm begging you. I love my hair. I'll never complain about caring for it ever again.” He feels you rest your wrist right next to the top of his makeshift ponytail, and he fucking loses it. “(Your Name), stop, please! I know I'm vain, I'm a show-off, but I love my hair. Please, God, please don't!” You fucking did it, (Your Name). Chris is actually crying. His tears capture the tint of his mascara and eyeliner, a smoky black trail leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Please... I won't complain...” 

“Is that a promise?” You bring the blade to the front of his neck, resting the dull edge against his throat. Fuck, it's sexy when he cries and gasps in fear. (There's also a pesky sliver of worry there, as thin as the blade, but poignant. This guy's self-esteem is so wrapped up in his appearance; he actually believes you'd cut his hair, and it's the end of his world.) “Promise me.” 

“I swear to God, you'll never hear me utter a word about it again.” 

You pull the knife away and rest it on his upper back. Goodness, he's tense. “How many times did Kaito have to listen to you bitch about your hair?” 

Estimate: Way too fucking much. Number of drawn-out bitch-fits: Five. You've already had to put up with two, usually a result of his braid coming undone in the middle of the night. That makes seven little red lines running down his back, shallow and barely producing any blood, per his request. The muscles in his back threaten to snap with how taut his tendons are, but he pushes through, heaving a long sigh of relief after the final cut.

“Let's try this again: warming, or tingling?” 

“Warming,” he mutters, sufficiently defeated. “Please.” 

You finally undo Christopher's hair from the rest of his bondage, giving him the opportunity to get up and stretch. Oddly enough, he stays on his stomach, rubbing his ankles and wrists the best that he can in a lying position. He's hiding something. Either he doesn't want anyone to see his dick, or... Oh, you wanna laugh. You really, really want to laugh. 

“How many times did he let you fuck him?” You ask Kaito in a perfectly nonchalant tone while your fingers scissor at Christopher's ass, stretching him out and lubing him up in preparation for his worst fucking nightmare. With the tingling lube, of course. 

“Never,” Kaito replies evenly, taking full advantage of the situation and teasingly swiping Christopher's sweaty hair out of his eyes. No retort, no swatting hand or icy glare; just a pathetic whimper as Christopher's eyes squeeze shut as if to erase both of you from existence. 

“Never?” You shouldn't be so surprised. Christopher's up his own ass on an average day, which roughly translates to never admitting to wanting a dick up his ass for fear of people finding him small, and he's worked his whole life to be taken seriously. Funny how everything he's worked for has never quite made it to fruition. You lean over Chris's back, your hand now gripping at his ass before trailing up his spine, watching his skin grow tense with goosebumps. Bits of wax continue to chip away with each slight movement. “Why's that?” 

“I...”

“You know how much I value honesty, Doctor.” 

I needed him beneath me. I need everyone to know that I'm in charge, that I'm important and need to be respected for all that I've done for the people in my life. Because I'm selfish and need to have things done my way. “It never crossed my mind.” 

You roll your eyes, barely managing to see Kaito doing the same. You both seem to know Christopher's back on his bullshit despite the situation he's in, and it makes you wonder just how badly he wants to be fucked. “Can you do me a favor,” you ask Kaito lazily. “There should be a flexible nylon cane somewhere underneath the bed.” 

“No, please,” Chris whines, voice unsteady and tired. He buries his face in the duvet as he talks. “I'm sorry, I take it back. I didn't want him to fuck me because I...” He swallows, long and hard. “I liked being in control of him. I wanted him beneath me.” 

Kaito sighs, a huff under his breath, mustering another eye roll. “No shit. You made that pretty well-known.” 

You tap the cane against Christopher's ass, and he immediately goes back to begging. “Please, no. I can't handle it. I'm weak, Domina. Please don't.” 

Kaito holds up his phone again, mainly for you.

>> How the fuck does she get him to beg? 

“How  _ do _ I get you to beg, Christopher?” 

“By having complete power over me, Domina. I live to serve you.” 

“You gonna keep begging for me to not senselessly whip your ass?” 

Chris falls back into his pleas, asking again and again to not hit him, not with that, it hurts too much, please! He's a slut for pain, especially now; you dish out the physical beatdowns, Kaito with the emotional ones. It's sexy as all hell, and yeah, he usually doesn't have any shame, but now? There's a reason Chris refuses to lift himself from the bed, and he's certain you've figured it out by now. It's half the reason for the beating. 

“Count for me, Chris. Loudly. I want the fucking neighbors to hear you.” Christopher doesn't have any neighbors within a half-mile radius. 

“(Your Name), please, have any amount of mercy--” Crack. Caning hurts, a lot, and while he's never said it out loud, Christopher prefers it. “Agh! Okay! One!” 

“Louder.” The snap rings out against his skin in an almost sickeningly loud impact. Kaito flinches. Christopher shifts. 

“Two!” He cries out, grasping at the top of his head as he further buries his face into the blankets. 

“Nope,” you shake your head. “They're not gonna count until you scream it out.” 

Christopher's voice carries well – you know this because he has to yell all the way from the front of the class to the back of the lecture hall to get your attention. Hearing that booming voice in close quarters almost makes you jump out of your skin. His voice runs hoarse the closer he gets to ten. The way he gasps after 'nine' leaves you with your own, simple study idea.

Research hypothesis: Christopher Arclight just came into his luxury sherpa duvet without anyone touching his cock. 

Null hypothesis: Christopher Arclight is normal. 

Christopher's back aches, backside a vibrant scarlet, bruises already beginning to form in various places. You might feel bad about it if he didn't release a shuddering breath into the comforter and refused to lift his gaze to anyone in the room. Kaito watches with a mix of agony and enthrallment in his face, clearly never having seen Christopher so close to breaking. 

And break he might. His back already houses constellations of bruises and marks, ankles burned earlier by his own stupidity, forcing mass amounts of friction despite knowing full well he'd never be able to break out of his bonds. It's not enough for him. He's thirsty for pain; he wants to cast aside control and live his life by the direction of others, tired of fighting for domination all twenty seven years of his life. 

“How would you feel,” you muse aloud, making sure Christopher is mostly stretched-out and ready for action, “if Kaito fucked you instead of me?” 

“No,” he replies, naked and afraid. “No, absolutely not.” 

“Oh?” You hum, sitting on the backs of his thighs. You rip his face from the bed, sweaty locks of his hair nestled between your fingers. “I think it's a fine idea.” 

“No, please,” Christopher's practically whining, thrashing around and trying to wriggle out from underneath you. “Please, Domina, I'm begging you. Not him. I can't, I don't, I'm...” He's at a loss for words, and you're drinking in each and every syllable spewing from his chapped lips. You smirk and share a look with Kaito, the two of you basking in the glorious demise of one Doctor Arclight. “I'm yours, and only yours,” he pleads. “I don't want anyone to fuck me but you.” 

“I think he's full of shit,” you shrug. “Thoughts?” 

“He's lying to you,” Kaito sighs dramatically, inviting himself to sit next to Chris and continue to tauntingly play with his stupid tri-colored hair. One of his fingers traces an invisible line down Christopher's cheek; he flinches, tries to bury his face in the sheets before Kaito guides him back to the present moment. “You haven't grown out of your tells,” Kaito notes, thumb rubbing against Chris's lower lip. “Tell her what you do when you lie through your teeth.” Christopher shakes his head, mouthing the word 'don't' as firmly as he can through trembling lips.

“Ahh,” you grin. “The whole 'rubbing his lips together and avoiding eye contact' thing?” 

“She already knows,” Kaito smirks. “You're so goddamned hopeless.” 

“Have you seen how close he's been to getting off without anyone touching his dick?” You scoff, wordlessly directing Kaito to bring you the dildo of his choice from the chest unearthed from underneath Christopher's bed. “He fucking likes it when we treat him like the trash he is.” You dip your hand underneath his hips, telling him to lift himself up and grant you access to the part of him he's tried to hide from you for the last hour. It's suspicious, and you have a (likely accurate) hypothesis to test. After weighing the pros and cons, he complies, slowly and with a shaky exhalation. 

Sure e-fucking-enough. 

“Are you fucking serious?” You demand through gritted teeth, throwing Christopher onto his back and forcing you to face him. “You disgusting little slut,” you hiss, and holy shit, you're about to get off just as easily. The actual fear and self-loathing in his eyes makes those stupid sapphire irises more beautiful than ever. “Did you seriously come without either of us touching you?” 

“I-I'm sorry, Domina, I just--” 

“When?” You demand. Kaito passes you the silicone dick, far bigger than Chris can probably take. You don't care anymore – you're going to destroy this man's asshole and make him rue the day he fucked you against that window. Force him to face his own anal punishments, physically and metaphorically. 

Christopher's shaking. He can't tell if it's because he's losing feeling in his limbs, or if he's hornier than he ever thought possible. It flips his theories about himself in so many confusing directions, he can't even begin to label his truth. Everything turns him on at this point: you, Kaito, the humiliation, the pain, the eyes on him, the bruises, and God damn it, he really wants both of you to fuck him right here and now. 

“Wait,” Kaito grabs your wrist suddenly, an odd gesture given the situation. “I have an idea.” He beckons you closer, leaning close to your ear as he whispers an idea so beautiful you might actually shed a tear. Christopher did heavily imply that Kaito would be the one person he'd have a threesome with, and this idea treads into that same kind of water. Christopher watches with morbid curiosity – emphasis on 'morbid,' given the growing, matching smirks you and Kaito wear. You've swapped the toys out, favoring a large beaded silicone vibrator; the one Chris has been training you to take in, given the size and intensity. Christopher has never once used an anal vibrator, oddly enough, but now you're dragging him over to the vanity chair perched at the edge of the bed. 

“Bend over,” you command, again pointing to the camera while slowly inserting the intimidating toy. Chris bites his lip and groans, wanting to bitch about how he at least prepped you with a course of anal training and knowing better than to speak. You're straight-up fucking him in the ass with tingling lubricant and a toy that makes him squirm as each bead enters his body. “Sit down and stay still.” 

Most of Chris's limbs have been tied to the chair, just one arm free. He grimaces when you throw the remote back to Kaito. He knows his ex well, very familiar with his vengeful streak given the last hour, and shouldn't be surprised when Kaito skips the pleasant vibrations in favor of a constant buzz on the highest intensity. A real 'fuck you' to Chris, who's already moaning and bringing his limp hand to his mouth to stifle his pleasured sounds. 

“You know the drill,” you smile, sitting in front of him one last time. “No talking unless we tell you to. Ask before you touch yourself.” 

“Are you... wanting to watch?” He asks, shy, shaky, and unsure. Naked and afraid. 

“Oh, no,” you grin. On cue, Kaito sits behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, lips dipping against your neck. “You're going to watch, since both of us are too good for you.”


	6. The Research Hypothesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher rejects his null hypothesis, and we all know just how much he loves being right. Just... not in this case.

It's 10:23AM. A steady drizzle of rain taps against the windows in what should be a soothing rhythm. You and Kaito smile at him in sync. In this exact moment, Christopher comes to the conclusion that the research hypothesis is very much true. His hopes and prayers for the null hypothesis to be true lay shattered at his feet. A swirl of emotions well up in his throat: jealousy, because you and Kaito are leaving him out and he wants both of you to fuck him instead; anger, because you and Kaito have both worked against him in a horribly cruel way; guilt, because he probably deserves all of the above sensations; shame, because Kaito's already taking off your shirt and shooting him a proud smirk; and sadness, because there's the possibility that you and Kaito both decide to leave him after this. 

Oh, and the fact that his dick's insanely hard at the thought of you and Kaito fucking in front of him. Arousal, if that's an emotion. A state of mind? Who fucking cares – the research hypothesis stands firm regardless as does his cock. 

“This is okay with Mizael?” You whisper. 

>> Anyone but Christopher. 

“This is okay with him?” Kaito gestures to Chris with his head. 

“Get him three glasses deep and he'll casually drop the concept of cuckolding into conversation. He knows his safe words.” You save Chris the embarrassment and not talk about your physics quiz turned contract and sexy time preferences.

“Perfect.” 

You and Kaito fall into a smooth, even tempo, taking off each other's clothes between locked lips and curious hands. You thought you'd have an easy time keeping an eye on Chris, but Kaito silently captures your attention seamlessly. He's softer, gentler than Christopher, but that might be due to the nature of the situation rather than Kaito's personal preferences. You let him have control, your back connecting with the bed as his lips explore every part of your body.

Christopher bites the insides of his cheeks so harshly that he draws blood, all for the sake of refusing to admit how good all of this feels the longer he watches. He can't decide if he wants to be the one fucking you, if he wants to fuck Kaito, if he wants to be fucked by both of you – it all sounds tempting, but he knows that this is his punishment for his fucked up scenes from before. He won't get his dick wet, but the vibrator working at his ass makes him feel on top of the world despite being crushed by the reality of the situation. 

It cuts much deeper than you did. It burns more than the wax. It contorts him into more painful knots than you've ever been able to maneuver him into. No amount of impact play could hurt as much as this does. Kaito talks to you the way Chris wanted him to, and the realization that its his own fault is almost too much to tolerate. Almost, because he's leaking pre-cum like his life depends on it, and there goes the first moan. 

“He likes it,” you tease, exhibiting no self-control of your own noises as Kaito brushes against your nipples. “Hold it back, Christopher.” 

“Tell me if I'm being too rough,” Kaito mutters against your breast, leaving gentle kisses that you're not entirely used to. It feels... weird. 

“Not possible.” 

“Any thoughts, Chris?” Kaito spares him one glance, short and concise.

“I can't think straight.” 

“I'm gonna go ahead and fuck her then. Is that what you want?” 

No. Yes. Maybe. A Type I and Type II error somehow manifesting at the same time. Too many confounding variables. Too many conflicting emotions. 

“Tell him what you want, Christopher.” A breathy moan muffles the sternness of your commands. Chris watches, enamored and envious. That should be him, damn it. 

“If you don't, I'll take her home with me. Mizael's open to it.” 

“She's my--...” Chris stops. All the times you've called him possessive echo in his brain. He needs to prove a point. “Go ahead.” 

He goes ahead, rolls the condom on without a second thought and slips into you with relative ease. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mumble in shock. “Okay, that's different.” 

“What?” Kaito slows his thrusts, mindful of your comfort. 

“You're bigger than Chris.” Chris can hear you, (Your Name); you knew that though, didn't you? 

“Sure am,” Kaito confirms with a confident smirk. “Another reason he wouldn't let me fuck him, I'm sure.”

“Fuck me, then. That feels so good.” 

Kaito fucks you on Christopher's bed, in Christopher's bedroom, in Christopher's house, in front of Christopher himself. If revenge always felt this fucking phenomenal, Kaito would probably be a bad person. But Christopher deserves this. Kaito gives him the go-ahead to touch himself, and Chris wastes no time wrapping his hand around his cock to pump in time with Kaito's thrusts. 

It dawns on him, just how literally and eloquently Kaito just told him to go fuck himself. He doesn't care. He can't care when the vibrator up his ass keeps hitting him just right, when his hand quickens and tightens, and yeah, he's supposed to ask for permission, but he's coming. Hard and fast, just like how Kaito's fucking you. 

You and Kaito share a rather intimate laugh when Christopher comes down from his post-orgasm high. He can't stifle his loud cries and pleas for Kaito to turn off the vibrator, and since you don't hear any safe words, he probably loves the way the overstimulation feels in the moment. Remember what that was like? When Chris left you naked and alone on that hotel bed with a vibrator pulsating against your g-spot and clit? The terrifying drop over the cliff afterward? Have fun cleaning up this mess of a man, (Your Name). 

Physically speaking, your orgasm's powerful and intense in all the right ways. You don't have to force the moans that morph into needy shouts, but you do have to force yourself to look away from Christopher. In the emotional sense, well... You hope to God you're not the reason for his tight lips and creased brow. Maybe Kaito, who just came with a low groan, is the reason for the clenched teeth and watery eyes. Hell, maybe it's just the vibrator in action. Maybe Christopher's too stimulated for his own good. 

Or maybe, just maybe, watching you and Kaito have sex on his bed wasn't quite what he had in mind. Ignorance is bliss, and all that. Christopher's research hypothesis is most certainly true, a 95, no, 99% chance that those results weren't in error. He mentally berates himself for being careless, for going into this thinking he knew better, for coming up with a null hypothesis that was never a fact, for formulating a research hypothesis that didn't even have an if-then statement. Christopher Arclight has never been so upset to reject a null hypothesis. He doesn't even have a paper to show for it. Just the image of you and Kaito lovingly (?) kissing each other while you bask in the afterglow, finding warmth where Christopher doesn't.

“How was that?” Kaito asks with more tender of a voice than you usually hear in bed. Nothing feels right. You frantically search for a bruise forming under the skin, a strict glare burning holes into your face... No luck. Just a kinda pretty blond guy gingerly brushing away your flyaway hairs. 

“Not the kind of sex I'm used to, but really nice.” 

“You're not too sore or anything?”

That's laughable. “Not even slightly. You're uh, really... sweet, for asking.” 

You and Kaito exchange pleasantries while he gets dressed and packs up, you sitting in Christopher's sweaty lap and slowly kissing his face. Kaito turns off the stream, sends Chris a salute of a wave, and shuts off the vibrator before taking off, mumbling something about texting later if he's pissed off about what happened. He can't quite muster any sentiment other than needing to leave and get back to Mizael. Once the bedroom doors shut, footsteps receding into nothing, you move to catch Christopher as he pitifully drops over the edge. The bell from his collar never once left his hand until this point in time, and you're on your feet faster than you thought possible. Not a safe word, but a safe sound, because Christopher Arclight can barely talk when he cries. 

“Fuck, okay, what do you need? Can you feel everything alright?” 

You're referring to his limbs, of course, but Christopher reads far too deeply into that question and lets loose with a short gasp of a sob. The second those ropes hit the ground, the moment he's free from the toys and bells and whistles and everything else, he crumples in on himself and just... cries. 

“Chris?” You try to peek past his hands to no avail. “Talk to me. I can't read your mind. It's a bit too advanced for me.” The joke goes ignored, as do you. “Did I miss a safe word?” He shakes his head with an unrefined sniffle. “Really bad sub-drop?” 

“I made you feel like this?” Ah, the mutual self-hate rears its ugly head again. Opposites are supposed to attract, per physics, but psychology states that like attracts like. The ultimate conundrum for one Doctor Arclight.

“I mean, it just... kinda comes with the territory...” No amount of tender touch gets him to calm down. “Come on. Lemme take you down my personal checklist of things to do when you feel like garbage after an especially rough scene.” Because you're familiar with it, because you know what to do, because Christopher isn't the first person to push your boundaries.

You have to finish chipping wax off of his back before you can help him into the tub. He's definitely not himself, because he doesn't give you a hard time or a price tag when you accidentally spill too many bath salts into the water. He does find it within himself to give you a hard time when you're the one denying him pleasure in the form of alcohol, because funnily enough, 'it's not good to self-medicate like that, Chris.' You're both wonderfully hypocritical at times. 

“I will say he could've been, uh... nicer, when he left. We agreed he'd stick around, but...” 

“He doesn't do well with emotions.” Chris sinks deeper into the water, finding comfort in lavender and sage. It's not an existing scent he has on hand – you went out of your way for him. 

“I'll talk to him then,” you offer. “He doesn't seem to hate my guts yet.” 

Another awkwardly quiet bath time. Christopher tries to get comfortable, alone with his thoughts while you pad out of the bathroom to find a cold glass of water and something for him to eat. He doesn't say much when you feed him grapes, and you don't tease him when he botches the hand-off and drops his empty glass into the water. 

“You know I didn't mean what I said, Chris.”

“I know.” 

“Then... Can you please talk about your hair? I don't think I'm using the right products.” 

Christopher wears a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “You are.” 

You help Chris into a set of silky pajamas; monogrammed with his initials, of course, because the world needs to know who he is at all times. It's half past noon, but he's tired and wants to crawl back into bed. It may be the first deviation from his schedule that you've ever witnessed.

“You changed the bedding?” 

“It kinda had a giant cum stain in the middle, and uh, I thought you'd like something... silkier, or, I don't know.” 

In an equally awkward turn of events, Chris drapes an arm over the giant pile of silk-covered pillows resting behind his back. “Come here?” Fuck, this is awkward. He sounds so unsure, so timid. You broke him beyond recognition. With an air of caution, you crawl across the fresh duvet, nestling into Chris's side. “I didn't ask how you were doing.” 

“Honestly? Kinda bad.” 

“Having sex with my ex-boyfriend wasn't quite what you hoped it'd be?” 

“You're so fucking catty,” you chide, resting an arm across his torso all the same. “You win. Usually it turns me on when you cry, but not like... that. You were blubbering like I'd killed your dog.” 

Research hypothesis: If Christopher has feelings, then he'll share that he actually had a dog growing up.

Null hypothesis: Christopher doesn't like you.

Christopher says nothing for the longest moment of your life. You're idly tracing the 'C' on his shirt when he hits you with this gem: 

“I'm not quite sure what happened to our dog.” 

“How do you not know what happened to your dog?!” You balk, smiling at the same. 

“It's a long story.” Chris dodges tough questions like he's in a low-budget Matrix sequel. “Another time.” 

“You're keeping me around despite everything I did?” 

Christopher did some messed up stuff too, you know. There's a list somewhere in that planner of his. Maybe it's a bullet journal, who knows; you haven't actually found it yet, but you're certain it exists. Your question does strike Chris in an oddly personal manner, and when he asks himself why, he once again is left without an answer. Just a confusing multiple choice question that he wrote himself, and he's known for tricks and half-truths in his exams.

Question: Why does hearing you take responsibility for all the messed up twists and turns from the last week make Christopher feel guilty? 

A) He's using his money and his status as your professor as a means of keeping power and control over you. B) He knows he took his rape fantasy scene too far and should've given you more of a warning. C) He isn't entirely justified in being jealous of you spending time with your lab partner. D) He recognizes he's hurt you in more than just a physical sense. E) The above research hypothesis is true. F) All of the above.  


Christopher can't get behind B or C, but A and D are certainly accurate, and E... Well, if E's true, then B and C have to be true, and that's... hard. 

“I said I'd take care of you,” he repeats. Plain and simple. It's why he likes it when you call him 'daddy.' Keep up.

“I still feel pretty bad. Took it a bit too far, y'know?” 

Doctor Arclight knows his ideas aren't sound. Aren't fair. Aren't in your best interest, per se. He idly scratches at the top of your head before he opens his big dumb mouth to make yet another mistake.

“I... really shouldn't have put you in this position.” 

“What position? The cuddling?” You joke. Don't get you hopes up, (Your Name). This isn't good. You know Professor Arclight's apologies are generally self-serving.

“The one where I truly wish you weren't my student.” 

“Can't change that unless I drop out, and my parents don't need another thing to be disappointed in.” 

Chris flinches – that hits a little too close to home. “Finish out the semester.” He sounds... encouraging. “After graduation, I'll... It's only two months.”

A funny way of admitting to having a semblance of feelings for you, sure, but it's very Christopher Arclight. Extravagant in materials and intelligence, woefully under-performing in any emotion not steeped in sexual gratification. It's been a month, and you still have Chris down to a science. 

“Anything else you want?” You mumble in question.

“Honestly,” he yawns, “I'd like to sleep with you at least once, much like...” 

Ah. Another admission, one far more vulnerable for him. It's tender, sweet, and... confusing.

“We're a disaster of a couple,” you note in a whisper.

“You're not entirely wrong.” 

A long pause follows. You're certain Christopher's drifting off to sleep. You are too, until that tiny little detail from your night out at the club spurs an unsettling pit in your stomach. 

“How mad would you be,” you whisper slowly, “if the girl from class knows what we're doing?” No response, just slow, even breaths. “I'll take your silence to mean you're okay with it.” 

You get comfortable in the warmth of the covers, breathing in time with Chris, nearly asleep when you hear him mutter something into your ear.

“You are in an obscene amount of trouble, Miss (Your Name).” 

The cycle continues. 


End file.
